Shadow and Light
by ShinySherlock
Summary: Sherlock/Firefly crossover. Long ago, John Watson was a browncoat, fighting a losing war. Ten years later, he's fighting to reconstruct his relationship with Sherlock, who has recently re-entered his life, post-fall. Needing transport off-world for a case, John soon finds his past and present colliding. (Set post-Reichenbach for Sherlock, and before "Heart of Gold" for Firefly).
1. Chapter 1

_snogandagrope "won" me for the AO3 fanfic auction, and challenged me with an ambitious plot bunny for a sherlock/firefly crossover full of adventure and sex and all these wonderful characters. She also was invaluable in helping me with brainstorming, researching, and betaing. This simply would not have happened without her.  
My dear i_ship_an_armada pushes me to do better in everything I write, including this, and I am endlessly grateful.  
Impossible to overstate how much captfangirl (Rerin) helped me with this particular chapter. She is the bee's extremely knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and helpful knees.  
This chapter had many eyes on it, and I'm so glad for these folks' support and interest: somebodyswatson, wiggleofjudas, and KitKate.  
I plan to post a chapter a week and I swear to holy mother of god and all her wacky nephews that I will not abandon this fic._

_January 2507_

Hera was cold this time of year.

Lieutenant John Watson rubbed his hands together and then crossed his arms, tucking his fingers beneath his armpits as he made his way across the compound. The wind tickled his nape, his dark blond hair just long enough now that the breeze ruffled it a bit, and he hunched closer in on himself.

It had been a long day of doing almost nothing but gruntwork and drills. The good lieutenant had spent much of it deciphering conflicting orders from the higher ups, which only underscored their underdog position in this war for independence. He sighed in relief as he passed into the tent where his sergeant and corporal were already huddling around the table, the cards and chips ready to entertain them for another hour or two before lights out.

Inside the tent, formality and routine melted away with the cold, and John took his seat at the table, cheeks pink from the cold. The man and woman already seated had fought together for some time now, but their platoon had endured an endless rotation of lieutenants, each worse than the last, until an utterly ordinary-looking prior-enlisted officer appeared, asking about tea and target practice. In ten weeks, John Watson had managed to become both respected and loved; and, when necessary, feared.

"Come on, Doc," Malcolm Reynolds chided, his tall frame and angled jaw making him seem too big for his rickety chair. "Ante up."

"_Xing jiao ni_," swore the older man, tossing his chip in the center of the table. "Impatient git."

The woman at his left frowned at Mal. Her dark brown hair had been released from its usual braid, and twisted in messy curls around her face. She narrowed her eyes at her sergeant and then turned to consider the man to her left. "You need a better nickname, LT," she stated plainly as she dealt out the cards.

"What's wrong with 'Doc'?" Mal protested, having been the first to give John the moniker soon after he had arrived.

Zoe Alleyne lowered her chin and looked at him. "It lacks a certain something, sir."

"Imagination?" John supplied.

"That," Zoe agreed. Calling a medic who was waiting to be sent to medical school "Doc" was hardly inventive.

The sergeant pretended to take offense. "All right, Corporal. How's about you come up with something better, then?" he challenged, taking up his cards and leaning far back in his chair.

"Hmm. Let's see," Zoe said, feigning deep thought. "Butterscotch."

Mal laughed outright.

"Look at him. He's eighteen shades of delicious," Zoe defended, indicating John's person in general and the varying shades of golden brown he embodied.

"Thank you, Corporal," John answered, tipping an imaginary hat at her.

"Oh, I know. Prince Charming," Mal joked, fanning out his cards against his palm.

John wrinkled his nose. "God, no." He picked up his own cards and assessed his hand.

"No. He's not that obvious," Zoe dismissed. She turned her head to contemplate the lieutenant more thoroughly. She narrowed her eyes. "You kinda sneak up on a person."

John's eyes sparkled a shade of navy blue in the low light. "Oh?"

"Yeah. First glance, you seem plain-"

"Thanks for that."

"-nothing special," Zoe continued.

Mal was grinning happily.

"But then you're full of surprises."

"Pray tell."

"I don't think any of us looked at you and thought you could hit a rations tin at a hundred yards," Zoe stated. John's marksmanship had been one of the first things to convince her that this lieutenant wasn't going to be a complete disaster like the rest.

"Or that you'd have all the privates panting after you," Mal conceded somewhat sullenly. "Now, that _is _a wonder."

John's eyes widened.

"_Deng yi huir_, I didn't mean-" Mal stuttered, leaning forward again in his chair, scrubbing a big hand through his straight brown hair.

John chuckled. "Look, I can't help it if I'm irresistible," he quipped, letting Mal off the hook.

Zoe sat up straighter, head held high. "I know what you are."

John raised his eyebrows.

"You're _qi cha_."

The eyebrows dropped dramatically. "I'm. Hang on. I'm 'weird tea'?" he translated.

Mal burst into chortles, showing absolutely no restraint in laughing at his commanding officer.

The lady frowned at them both. "As usual, you boys are missing the nuance. Not just weird. Unexpected. You're an everyday thing like tea, but-" She paused to consider. "Surprising," she said with some slink.

John smiled back at her. "If you say it like that, you can call me whatever you like," he answered, then turned his head to his giggling sergeant. "And you. _Bi zui_, or I'll order her to make an appropriate nickname for you."

Mal dabbed at the tears in his eyes. "Lord knows it'll be a damn sight better than 'Wacky Tea'!"

"How about 'Stubborn _Pi Gu'_?" Zoe offered.

John nodded. "Sounds about right."

"All right. Can we just play some gorram cards here before somebody starts trying to kill us again?" Mal argued.

"He must have a really good hand," John whispered to Zoe, and she grinned.

The tent flapped open and Corporal Ekwensi rushed in, halting abruptly as the three card players turned to look at him accusingly.

Ekwensi saluted sharply. "Sorry, sirs." The young man's pallor showed through his dark skin, and his posture was tense.

"What is it, Corporal?" John asked, giving him a perfunctory salute.

"Sir, orders from Colonel Ackabee." Ekwensi handed over the missive, and John reluctantly placed his cards face down on the table and took it from him.

He scanned it. Read it over again.

"Well. Hump me sideways."

Ekwensi startled and his eyes widened comically.

"All right, Corporal. Give us a minute. Dismissed."

"But, sir, I'm to take you directly-"

John's voice was calm but firm. "That's an order, Corporal."

"Yes, sir." They exchanged salutes and Ekwensi was scrambling out of the tent, the flap closing behind him.

John turned back to his tablemates.

"What's up, LT?" Mal asked, and John marvelled anew at how Malcolm Reynolds could go from joking around to intensely focused in the space of a breath.

John sighed. "Well, apparently it's Captain, now." He gave them a tight smile. In this case, a promotion meant a spot in med school had opened up for him; it also meant being shipped off elsewhere, and they all knew it.

Zoe was first to recover. She began to stand, and Mal followed suit, stepping around the table to fall in line next to her.

"Congratulations, Captain." She saluted him crisply.

"Congrats, sir," Mal echoed, mirroring her movements.

John returned the salute, and then they all were lowering their arms and not knowing what to do next.

John fiddled with the letter in his hand. "Off to Persephone with me, then. There, ah. Seems to be some haste in the matter."

Zoe only nodded.

"So." He cleared his throat and faced Mal. "Looks like you're in charge, then, Sergeant."

Mal nodded.

"Your new LT'll be here in the morning."

"And after we just got you all softened up," Mal joked, but his eyes were reflecting respect and loss, and his smile was a small thing.

John nodded, and said nothing, just put out his right hand, and Mal took it warmly. They patted each other on the shoulder, and that was that.

Zoe took John's offered hand as well, and he turned it over gently, bringing his other hand up to cover hers within his palm.

He fixed his eyes on her warm, coffee-brown gaze.

"My deepest regret is that we never had a proper snog," he declared.

Mal grinned beside them, and Zoe smiled.

"Well, sir. Something to live for, then," she replied, and he smiled widely at her and lifted her hand to his lips.

And then he was gone, disappearing quietly out of the tent, leaving only silence behind. Mal stared at the three poker hands on the table, face down.

"Zoe?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Let's not ever get promoted."

"Yes, sir."

_I *tried* to figure out how to do the Chinese properly, but I am certain I screwed stuff up (the pinyan symbols won't show up properly in some formats, for example). Here's a glossary anyway:_  
_xing jiao ni = fuck you_  
_deng yi huir = hang on a second_  
_qi cha = odd tea_  
_bi zui = shut up_  
_pi gu = butt/ass Also, gorram means damn in fireflyspeak._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes, dressed in his pajamas and tartan dressing gown, lay face-down on the floor behind his armchair, nose pressed into the carpet, his untamed black curls falling forward and providing a curtain against the dim afternoon light. Things were a little less busy in his head down there: just a little.

John had left the flat a while ago, something about beans and tea, and Sherlock had stood by the window, his back to John, and waved a hand as though he were listening to the words John said, when really, it was the tone that mattered.

John was worried.

It had been two weeks without a case, and that was never a good thing. For either of them.

Here on the floor, though, things were quieter, at least. He could hear the moment John turned the key in the lock downstairs, felt him climb the seventeen steps through the vibrations in the floor.

"Sherlock?"

He groaned in response. John scanned the room and found him, prone and grumbling into the rug.

"All right?" John asked.

Sherlock answered without lifting his head. "If by 'all right' you mean am I listening to each cell in my brain atrophy individually, then yes."

"Okay." Sherlock watched John's feet as he walked over to the desk where their console resided. _Shoes. Wet. Raining out, but walked anyway. Hair likely wet and flattened, darker than its usual sandy beige._

"Let's check the waves then, shall we? Find us a case?"

Sherlock harrumphed.

John settled into his chair, and tapped a key to wake up the machine. "It's either that or take one of Mycroft's jobs," he reasoned.

Sherlock was silent, which John interpreted (_correctly_) as assent to sift through their messages. They'd installed the console at John's desk, between the two big windows in the sitting room. The sleek, white casing housed a dedicated source box and more data rods than they could ever possibly need. Sherlock pictured the blue glow of the touch screen, imagined the short, strong fingers as he listened to John tap at it to access their messages via the Cortex. It was easily the most expensive item in the otherwise eclectic and cluttered flat, telegraphing cost and status with its clean, modern design. It had Alliance written all over it.

Sherlock used the top of the console as a resting place for whatever he was tired of carrying around-books, empty tea cups, loose change, bat skeletons.

"This one just came in this morning," John prefaced, interrupting Sherlock's reminiscences of Mycroft's horrified expression each time he saw anew how his little brother was treating his generous gift.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," a woman's voice began. Sherlock's deductions came as easily as breathing. _Young, educated, from the rim._ "I'm contacting you in hopes that you can help me right a grievous wrong."

"Boring," Sherlock mumbled at her use of the hackneyed phrase.

"No, this one looks promising," John argued.

"_Looks_ promising," Sherlock repeated. Not _sounds_. He got up from the floor and hunched his tall frame, hovering over John's shoulder to see the very beautiful young woman on the screen, violet eyes sincere and pleading. She was, by any account, striking, with smooth, olive skin and thick waves of chestnut hair.

"My name is Alicia Turner, and I live in Ross, on Hera. My father's best friend in the 'verse, Charles McCarthy, has been murdered. My father, Jack Turner, is ill and unable to pursue the matter himself, and the police here are ill-equipped to properly investigate." Alicia sighed. "To tell you the truth, gentlemen, they're ruttin' idiots."

John smiled at the screen, and Sherlock frowned.

"The most distressing bit, however, is that they've arrested Mr. McCarthy's own son, James, as the murderer. I've known this man since we were children. There is no earthly way that James killed his father." She pressed her eyes shut for a moment. "I've sent you all the case files I could get my hands on. I am not above begging in this instance. Gentlemen, I need your help."

The video ended. John looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

"You must be joking."

"And why do you say that?"

"There is nothing remotely unique or even marginally interesting about this case."

"_I_ think it's interesting."

"You think _she's_ interesting," Sherlock countered.

John narrowed his eyes.

"We agreed, Sherlock," he said softly.

Sherlock straightened and turned away, walking towards the kitchen, dressing gown a swirling wake. John followed him. Sherlock paused near the sink, his right hand trailing along the edge of the counter. He had agreed to many things, would have agreed to almost anything to get John to move back into the flat. After.

And apparently John was intent on invoking their compromise that John occasionally got to choose their cases.

It occurred to him that John must be slightly terrified of what Sherlock might do if this streak of boredom continued, the ways he might choose to distract himself. Like finding another enemy to play games with.

"We'll have to leave today if there's any hope of examining the scene," Sherlock began in a rush, "and you'll have to message back, find out how the body is being preserved, and we must have quick transport to Hera or there's no point in going at all-"

He felt John's hand rest upon his shoulder and stilled, as he always did whenever John touched him this way. Ever since his return-well, after things had settled a bit-John sought contact more often. Nothing big. Just little brushes of his hand here and there, as reassurance more than anything. Reassuring himself that Sherlock was real, alive.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John and thought.

_No, don't thank me, don't say thank you, it's not like that, it's not like you._

But though John's smile reflected a hint of gratitude, what he said was, "I'm on it," and his hand fell away and he was hurrying upstairs to pack.

x-x-x

Malcolm Reynolds surveyed his ship and wondered when exactly he had lost control of his crew. A voice in his head told him he never had it to begin with. It sounded a lot like Zoe's voice.

The statuesque woman secured her long curls at the base of her neck and then crossed her arms as she faced her captain.

"Seems a mite fishy, is all," she was saying.

The burly man next to her with a roguish dark goatee and mustache shook his head. "This stinks of a trap, Mal," Jayne Cobb protested as he checked his weapons and secured them among the various holsters strapped to his body.

"So we'll go in careful like," Mal said, shrugging.

"I hate to say it, Cap'n, but..." Zoe paused. "Jayne might have a point," she conceded, her brows knit.

Mal raised an eyebrow at her. "That looks like it hurt."

Her face tried to frown and smile at the same time.

"D'ya need the doc to take a look at ya?" Mal suggested with feigned concern.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "No, sir."

"Look, we ain't got a lot of options here. So let's just get this done and get the hell off this rock," Mal reasoned.

"Yes, sir," Zoe answered. She turned and walked over to the controls for the cargo ramp, punching the button to lower it. Serenity's gangplank rattled as it descended, and the bright sunlight of Londinium streamed in, illuminating every dark corner of the ship's hull.

Walking towards the sunshine, a gleeful Kaylee glided through the cargo bay, carrying her folding chair and parasol with her.

"How goes it, Little Kaylee?" Mal asked, smiling as she walked past.

"Everything's shiny, Cap'n," she answered, beaming back at him. "Shepherd all settled?"

"He's off communing in the fields outside Panifica as we speak," Mal assured her. She nodded and continued down the ramp.

"Get us some good fares, _mei mei_," he called after her. "We need the coin."

"_Dang ran_, Cap'n," she answered without looking back, and began to set up her spot in the afternoon sun at the bottom of the ramp.

x-x-x

John had changed into his traveling clothes, his worn and comfortable favorites-slim tan chinos, a sandy beige shirt, and the chocolate-toned corduroy waistcoat Mrs. Hudson had given him last Christmas. He had pulled on his brown field jacket more to hide the gun strapped to his hip than to guard against the weather.

He parted from Sherlock outside the chemist's, leaving him to pick up supplies as John wandered the Panifica docks in search of transport to Hera. The barkers called to him from their ships, the large duffel bag behind him with the strap slung across his chest and a second, smaller bag over his right shoulder advertising his status as a traveler.

One barker in particular stood out by decidedly not barking. She sat serenely in her low chair, twirling a rainbow-spiraled parasol over her shoulder. As John walked slowly by, she smiled up at him without expectation, and he paused.

She was young and pretty, with bright eyes and honey-colored hair that she'd piled into two messy buns. She remained silent and smiling as he took a step towards her.

"Hello."

"Afternoon," she answered.

"Are you, ah... trolling for passengers?" he asked, the corner of his mouth perking up.

"Depends." She twirled her parasol a bit.

He smiled back, intrigued enough to continue. "On?"

"You likely to bite?" she asked, a definite twinkle in her eyes.

"Only by request," John answered smoothly, and she barely suppressed a laugh. She moved to stand, and he offered her his hand to help her up.

She took it, and, rising, dipped her chin in thanks.

"John Watson."

"Kaylee Frye," she said, and they shook hands firmly. She indicated the ship behind her. "And this here's Serenity."

"What a lovely name," John continued, but the sweet smile on her face changed to knowing.

"Uh-huh." Kaylee lifted her chin. "Let's talk plain, John Watson. Where you fixin' to go?" she asked.

Ah, so the flirting was over. John allowed himself a moment of disappointment and straightened. "Hera." He cleared his throat. "Quickly."

Kaylee considered. "Just you?"

"And my flatmate."

"Cargo?"

"Just personal effects. And, honestly, the fewer questions asked, the better."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You in some kind of trouble?"

John paused. "Let's just say we'd like to avoid any allied entanglements."

Kaylee smiled. "Oh, is that all? Hell, we can do that."

"Terms?"

"The usual rate."

"Naturally."

"Plus a little something extra for the special rush," she added.

"Of course." He reached into the smaller bag at his hip and removed something heavy, wrapped in a piece of calico. "Will this do?" he asked, handing it to her.

She took it carefully in her hands, unwrapping the cloth to peek inside. She gasped and looked up at him, eyes wide. "You sure know how to sweet talk a girl!"

He grinned.

"Welcome aboard."

x-x-x

Sherlock walked up the ramp and stood in the center of the cargo bay. With his black great coat, embroidered purple silk waistcoat, fitted black trousers, and clearly bespoke black leather boots, he cut a striking figure, as always, but nothing conveyed his opinion more sharply than his rigid posture and the look of utter boredom across his features.

"Oh, please," John said simply as he brought their bags on board. "Don't start. She's fast and reliable."

"You gave up a liter of our best honey for"-he made no effort to hide his disdain-"this antiquated heap?"

John stopped moving. "Sherlock-" he hissed, concerned Kaylee might overhear, as she was only a few feet ahead of them.

"Honestly, John, I thought I made it clear-"

At the sound of feet hurrying down the metal staircase above them, Sherlock paused and both men looked up to see a man with wild yellow hair and wearing a short-sleeved button-up in a riotous floral print hustling down the stairs.

"Oh, Wash, these are the new passengers-"

"Sorry, gents, we'll have to do proper introductions later," Wash apologized. He looked over to Kaylee. "We're, uh, having to keep a tighter schedule than we anticipated. Capt'n just radioed."

"Oh," Kaylee said, catching on. She turned to John. "Okay, then, let's get you settled right quick."

Wash ran back up the stairs, two at a time.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stayed put, but John made his way over to Kaylee, following her quick pace through the cargo bay.

"So, here's the infirmary, the common area." She did not slow down, and they zoomed onward towards the passenger dorms and down a hallway to the left.

"So, there's one of the bigger rooms down here," she said, indicating the second door on the right side of the hallway. She paused. "And, uh, there's another smaller room up here," she added, tracing her steps a bit to point to the other side of the hallway. She looked up at him slyly. "If you'll be needing two."

John smiled a little at that. "Two would be shiny."

"Great," she replied brightly, and she pushed the door open to the smaller room behind her and led him inside.

"Nothin' fancy."

"I've no need for fancy," John offered, dumping his duffel on the bed.

Kaylee lingered a moment.

"So, uh. That him?"

"Hmm?"

"Your flatmate?"

"Friend. Flatmate. Pain in my arse."

"Don't seem all that friendly, don't mind my saying," Kaylee ventured.

"No, Sherlock, he's-" John struggled to explain. He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at Kaylee, gauging her. She seemed genuinely interested, so he tried. "Sherlock's amazing. He's brilliant. And he can be really, really difficult. And rude. But he's the best man I know."

Kaylee melted a bit to hear him speak so admiringly, but angry voices reverberated through to them from the cargo bay.

John sighed. "And he's a ruttin' idiot."

They entered the cargo bay to find Sherlock Holmes and Jayne Cobb twenty paces apart, each leveling a gun at the other.

Kaylee approached without fear. "Jayne!"

"Stay outta this, Kaylee," he ordered gruffly.

"I will not. That's our fare you're threatenin' to shoot!"

John stopped a pace behind Sherlock, Kaylee at his left. At this point Wash's figure appeared at the top of the steps, but one glance showed he was unarmed and too far away to influence the situation directly.

John stayed very still, his right hand resting lightly upon the gun holstered at his hip. Kaylee clearly knew the man Jayne, but that didn't mean things couldn't go horribly wrong.

"John, instruct this moron to lower his gun or I'll be forced to prove my point," Sherlock intoned in his smooth baritone.

"Who you callin' 'moron'?" Jayne asked, taking a step towards Sherlock, and John's gun was drawn before anyone expected it. John took one step forward, lining up to Sherlock's left side and keeping Kaylee behind him.

John's hand was steady and his voice was smoke. "I reckon there are four possible outcomes here, mate, only one of which ends with you alive."

Jayne's brows knit while he attempted to calculate what the four might be as a voice to his left said silkily, "That so, _mate_?"

Sherlock took one step back and aimed towards the voice. John turned his head to see.

Zoe stepped out of a shadow, shotgun aimed at Sherlock.

John lowered his arm and grinned.

Zoe's eyes widened. Her gaze flicked to Sherlock. "Friend of yours?"

"'Fraid so." John could not have stopped smiling for all the coin in the 'verse.

Zoe holstered her weapon. "Stand down, Jayne."

Jayne frowned but did as he was told, and Sherlock reluctantly lowered his arm as well.

Zoe strode forward, and she and John reached out at the same moment, clasping forearms in an old army greeting.

"What brings you to our corner of the 'verse?" she asked, keeping her smile small though her eyes sparkled.

John dipped his chin and looked up at her through his lashes. "I'm back for our snog, of course."

Her smile grew.

"Oh, yeah. Took me ages to track you down," he quipped.

"Never one to give up easily, were you, sir?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Never."

Sherlock's impatient sigh broke the mood. "Must you be such an utterly predictable knave?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he tucked his gun away under the great coat.

Zoe and John reluctantly released their hold on each other's arms, and Zoe took a step back.

"We're in a bit of a hurry," she offered, neither apology nor explanation so much as a statement.

"Understood," John said, and he took a step back as well.

Zoe's eyes flicked up to her husband. "All set?"

Wash's soft look answered her implied question. "All set," he answered, and he turned, making his way quickly back to the bridge.

Kaylee emerged from behind them now that all the aiming and threatening was over. "Where's the cap'n?" she asked, concern at the edges of her tone.

"Right behind us," Zoe answered, and sure enough, Mal Reynolds entered in a flurry, taking long strides up the ramp, hitting the button to close it on his way in, grabbing the radio.

"Okay, buckle up everybody!" he barked into it. "Wash, get us in the air!"

He hung up the radio and continued in a beeline to Zoe, handing her a small but heavy bag that gave off the sound of jingling coins.

"Stow that somewhere safe," he ordered without looking at her.

"Yes, sir," she said, wondering at what point he would notice John, but he moved on towards the staircase to join Wash on the bridge.

Three steps up, he turned on his heel.

"Doc?"

John deadpanned. "Yeah?"

Mal's face, unsure if it wanted to laugh or shout or both, broke into a wide grin. "_Sheng fen_! What the hell you doin' on my ship?" he asked, charging towards John.

"Funding your life of crime, apparently," John answered as Mal grabbed him by the arm and enveloped him in a quick but sincere hug.

"We gotta-" Mal waved a flustered hand.

"Yes, go," John dismissed.

"Things did not, uh, go exactly to plan," Mal explained, walking backwards towards the staircase.

"Situation normal, then," John replied.

Mal pressed his lips together and nodded. "Pretty much," he said. "Okay, Kaylee-"

"On it, Cap'n," she answered, and jogged off to the opposite staircase as the engine rumbled and came to life.

"Zoe-"

"Yes, sir." She and Jayne disappeared as well, and Sherlock and John found themselves alone in the massive cargo bay.

John stole a look at Sherlock, knowing that for all his silence, he was full of questions and observations about what had just transpired.

Sherlock caught him looking and held his gaze.

"Well?" John asked after several moments.

Sherlock turned his head, an icy profile.

"Seven."

John blinked. "What?"

"You said 'four possible outcomes'."

And with that, Sherlock walked calmly away towards their rooms, leaving John alone.

x-x-x

Glossary of my questionable Chinese:

mei mei = sister (term of endearment)  
dang ran = of course  
sheng fen = holy shit


	3. Chapter 3

John sighed.

He picked up Sherlock's bags, which the detective had, of course, left behind when he dramatically walked off. As John made his way back to the passenger dorms, he ruminated over what was clearly Sherlock taking exception to John's flirting with Zoe.

From the beginning, from the first day, John had been drawn to Sherlock, like paper thirsty for ink to give it meaning and color. All the things Sherlock was sang out to all the things inside him, and together they clashed, blended, resonated. And if, in one area, they could not meet, John was willing to tuck his inconvenient thoughts away, lock them up in a forgotten trunk. For almost two years, John considered the subject closed, and did not give it a second thought.

Until Sherlock died. And for John, it was a real death. It was final. It was three years of regretting chances not taken, conversations never begun, unattempted advances.

When Sherlock returned, when he explained, John made promises to himself. No regrets. No shame.

And yet, his courage had flagged. Six months Sherlock had been back now, and John found himself biting his tongue, holding back, even though things were different, with every touch, every look, the energy between them more charged than ever.

It would be easy to dismiss Sherlock's comment, his behavior, as simply being irked by anything that took John's attention away from him, but this felt different. It felt like jealousy.

And so John was done with waiting, done with hoping Sherlock might deduce and act on his own.

He thundered into Sherlock's room, finding him standing at the window, and deposited the bags in a heap on the bed.

"Careful," Sherlock chided.

John narrowed his eyes. "Not actually your porter."

"Doing a fine imitation of one, then," Sherlock answered smoothly, raising an eyebrow but not really looking at John.

John took three swift steps forward until he was firmly within Sherlock's personal space.

"Listen," he began, summoning his patience. He closed his eyes a moment, then opened them to look up into cautious blue silver eyes. "You can't get upset every time I flirt with someone."

"Oh, please, John, you're grossly overestimating the effect of your-"

John held up a hand. "Not actually an idiot, either."

Sherlock squinted at him, calculating.

"Any relationship you have is a distraction and therefore clouds your already limited powers of perception, so, yes, in that sense, it 'upsets' me," Sherlock equivocated.

"That's not it," John said, shaking his head once.

"If you're implying-"

Serenity lurched suddenly as she broke through the atmosphere, and they reached out instinctively to steady themselves, holding on to each other's arms. John took advantage, pulling Sherlock closer, their gazes locked as the ship leveled out.

"I'm not implying. I'm saying. You want all of my attention, all of the time. And for the most part, I give it to you, willingly." John cleared his throat, completely unsure if he was about to set off a grenade in their relationship. "But I can't shut down the part of me that wants _that_ kind of attention-to give it, and to get it in return."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked, his voice small and stunned, and John felt the muscles tense beneath his fingers.

"I'm saying that I . . ." John swallowed. "I accepted it when you said you were married to your work, and I meant it, I still mean it when I say that's fine with me. But you can't have it both ways. Either I flirt with other people, or-" John faltered a moment, but it wouldn't do to leave any grey area. "-or I flirt with you."

"With _me_?" Sherlock echoed weakly.

John released his hold on Sherlock's arms, took a step back, and Sherlock's hands slid away as well.

"It's up to you."

Sherlock blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but John rushed to intercede.

"You don't have to decide now. Just. Think about it?" John asked. He tried to smile a little, to somehow be reassuring but firm, and felt his face struggle to convey it.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He nodded once, though his eyes remained wary.

And then whatever courage John had found left him, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

x-x-x

"Doc! Come on up to the mess."

Mal's voice rang throughout Serenity over the intercom, and John got up from his bed to comply, grateful to have something to do other than contemplate the ceiling and wait for Sherlock to make his decision. He had put away his coat, and now as he made his way through the ship, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves, a habit born of tending to patients.

After a moment, John noticed another man walking a ways behind him, climbing the stairs a respectful number of steps after him. The man was about a decade younger than John, tidy and well-dressed, with smooth black hair and bright blue eyes. It occurred to John that he resembled Sherlock and he shook his head. Like the 'verse needed another Holmes brother in it.

They managed to reach the dining area at the same moment, and stood looking at each other in polite bemusement for a beat.

Mal walked in from the forward hallway and chuckled. "I guess I shoulda been more specific."

Zoe stepped in behind Mal. "Told ya 'Doc' wasn't a good nickname," she said, walking past Mal and over to John. _Ah_, John thought. The man next to him must be a doctor as well.

The younger doctor looked between Mal and John, opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. He looked like had gotten used to feeling like he was walking into the middle of a movie.

"What am I supposed to call him? He's not LT anymore," Mal complained.

"I have a perfectly serviceable name. It works passing well in situations such as these," John teased. He put out his hand to the patient young man. "John."

"Simon," he offered, shaking John's hand.

"You must be doing well, then, to have a doctor on your crew," John said to Mal.

"Yes, we're pullin' coin hand over fist," Mal assured him, but John caught the sarcasm and shook his head while Zoe just frowned.

Simon cleared his throat. "Well, since I'm assuming you didn't actually need me, I'll just-"

"No, please-" John protested.

"Yeah," came a voice from behind Mal, and Wash popped in. "Stay. We're about to make supper anyway, right?" he asked no one in particular.

"Right," Mal answered, and cocked his head as Kaylee appeared in the doorway between John and Simon, and then Jayne was entering between him and Wash. "Suddenly it's a party," Mal mumbled, waving a hand.

"Well, you said come up to the mess," Kaylee defended.

"I said 'Doc'-"

"So either someone's hurt," Kaylee began.

"Or there's gonna be food," Jayne finished.

"No one's hurt," Zoe clarified.

"Oh, that's good." Kaylee stepped forward into the room and produced the jar of honey. "'Cause I thought we might use some of this for supper."

The others stared at the shining golden liquid as she held it up to the light.

"_Wo de ga_!" gasped Wash.

"Where'd you get that?" Mal asked.

"From me." All heads turned to see Sherlock Holmes in the doorway behind John. He'd shed his coat and rolled the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, and he struck a pose of casual elegance, leaning against the doorway with his hands slipped into his trouser pockets.

"My family owns a farm outside Panifica with an apiary," Sherlock explained, shifting smoothly away from the doorway and stepping into the room. He had avoided meeting John's eyes, though he now stood fairly close to him. John could feel the heat of Sherlock beside him, the familiar warmth drawing them together.

Simon, however, took a careful step away.

"Hello, Dr. Tam," Sherlock greeted, and panic blossomed in Simon's eyes.

John saw Zoe and Mal stiffen instantly, and Kaylee looked outright afraid.

Sherlock continued. "No cause for alarm, Doctor. I have no intention of handing you or your sister over to the Alliance."

Simon swallowed. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe, Mr. Holmes. What with you being a detective and all."

Mal's brows knit as he looked at Sherlock and John accusingly. "You're Alliance?"

"No," they both answered at once, John surprised and Sherlock offended.

"Maybe you'd better explain it, clear and simple-like," Wash suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."

He didn't start speaking, however, so John jumped in.

"Sherlock is a . . . private detective," he began, knowing exactly what was coming.

"_Consulting_ detective," Sherlock corrected.

"Yes, fine. He is hired-"

"_We_," Sherlock amended, and John's heart took notice.

He cleared his throat and continued. "We are hired by the police or by private citizens to solve mysteries."

"And capture criminals," Simon emphasized.

"Sometimes," John allowed.

Sherlock turned to Simon. "Do you believe you and your sister have committed a crime, Dr. Tam?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

"So what _are_ ya doin' here?" Jayne put in.

"A private case, in Ross," John answered. He did not elaborate, and Mal stepped in.

"All right, so nobody's turnin' anybody in for anything, and we still got no food on the table. That about sum it up, Zoe?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, back to work, people. Ain't you got piloty things to be doin'?" he prodded Wash.

"Oh, right. Knew I was forgetting something." He moved back towards the hallway door, and Zoe walked over to follow him to the bridge. She paused at the doorway to look back at John. He gave her a nod, and she was gone.

"Kaylee?"

"Yes, Cap'n."

"Why don't you go check on Inara."

Kaylee squinted at him. "Check on her?"

"Braid her hair or whatever it is you two get up to."

Kaylee shrugged. "Okay, Cap'n," she answered, clearly humoring him. She smiled at John and then made her way over to the doorway that led to Inara's shuttle.

"And Jayne."

Mal hooked a finger at him and Jayne walked up to him. Mal lowered his voice to a whisper. "Go look up what an apiary is."

"Yeah, okay," Jayne answered, and exited through the hallway door.

Mal straightened. "Doc-" John just smiled and Simon looked up expectantly. "_My_ doc-"

"Actually," Sherlock interrupted. "If you don't mind, Captain, I have some information that Dr. Tam might find useful."

"Fine," Mal said, waving an arm.

John grinned. "Enjoying being captain?"

"It's a barrel of monkeys," Mal answered. "How about you and I rustle up a meal? Way I remember it, you could cook almost as well as shoot," he said, grinning.

John laughed. "Well, I am a man of many talents," he joked, and wondered at how easily they slipped back into the camaraderie of their past.

x-x-x

Sherlock and Simon spoke quietly, hunched together over the circular coffee table in the observation room as Mal and John prepared dinner in the galley nearby. Their voices carried occasionally over the domestic noises of pots and pans, and the two captains could hear Sherlock telling Simon what he had discovered about the "program" that River Tam had been subjected to.

"So," Mal began as he poured the protein-enhanced rice into a pot of water.

John looked up from where he stood searing the chicken and raised an eyebrow at him.

"How does Sherlock know so much about what's going on with River?" Mal asked, keeping his voice low.

"Ah." Damned if he was going to bring up Mycroft now, when everyone had just calmed down. "We have a lot of contacts, a lot of informants," he replied vaguely, clearing his throat.

"Sounds exciting," Mal said.

"Sometimes, sure," John agreed. "But I bet you've seen your share of excitement with this lot."

"Aw, it's always interestin'. New people-" He smiled. "Old people."

"Can it," John said reflexively. "Sir," he added after a beat.

Mal shook his head. "Yeah, that's a mite weird. You callin' me 'sir'."

"Something tells me you'll get used to it," John teased. He flipped the cutlets over in the pan. "So."

Mal looked at him.

"Who's Inara?" John asked, hoping to sound casual.

"She's . . ." Mal considered giving John a standard answer, but found himself saying the truth instead. "Confounding."

John automatically glanced over to Sherlock. "Yeah."

Mal took advantage of the opportunity to steer the conversation away from Inara. "So, you and Sherlock-" he trailed.

John looked back at Mal. "Confounding. Times ten."

Mal nodded a bit and John cleared his throat. "So, ah, what have you got that I can mix with honey, make a sauce or something for this?"

"Oh, this and that. I think there's some orange peel preserves in there," Mal said, gesturing to the tall pantry behind John. "Maybe some dried ginger, if you're lucky."

John stepped over to the door of the pantry, pulling it open, and his heart nearly stopped at the sight of a person where only jam should be. Just inside stood a willowy girl, no more than seventeen at the outside, with long, dark, wavy hair and serious brown eyes. With her flowing blue dress and bare feet, the old soul expression on her face, she seemed more nymph than human.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, taking a step back and nearly bumping into Mal.

Sherlock scrambled over, at John's side almost instantly, even as Mal was explaining.

"It's all right; she's all right." Mal waggled his head. "Well, mostly."

John straightened and ordered his heart to calm its rapid pace. He sensed Sherlock a step away, could feel him beginning his deductions.

"River?" Simon asked, coming around to the front of the pantry, but River Tam's gaze was focused entirely on John.

"No ginger," she said.

John had overheard enough from Simon and Sherlock's conversation to understand this girl was troubled. Unstable. He made his face calm, his features open.

"Okay." He remained where he was, but relaxed his posture. "Any suggestions?"

She looked carefully at him, then at Sherlock, as though trying to solve a puzzle of her own. John watched her take in details the way Sherlock did, could almost hear the gears turning in her head. Her eyes darted from John's face to his hands, over to Sherlock and back again.

"Remember the language of birds," she replied sincerely. "Raven, hawk, it doesn't matter-all know it, all speak it. You just have to remember."

John had no idea what to make of River's advice, and looked over to Sherlock.

He was smiling, the small, surprised smile that meant he was impressed. Sherlock gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and then made his way back over to the sitting area.

"River, you okay?" Simon asked, seeming both concerned and lost in the face of his sister's pronouncement.

"Please. Don't be an idiot; John's already doing a fine job of it without you pitching in," she replied in a rush, mimicking Sherlock's accent and comportment so completely that John let out a short laugh. She turned on her heel and swept out of the room; all she needed was the long coat swirling behind her to complete the image.

Simon looked vaguely apologetic and followed her to where she sat near Sherlock.

"What the hell just happened?" Mal demanded.

"No bloody idea," John answered.

x-x-x

Once dinner was on the table and people started filing in, taking their usual seats, Kaylee entered with a woman who could only be Inara, based on the look Mal gave her. John wasn't as observant perhaps as Sherlock, but he knew that look, that feeling.

Mal, John, Sherlock and Inara clustered at one end of the long table as the others talked and laughed amongst themselves.

And if John paid close attention to how Mal interacted with her, well. Maybe he hoped for some insight into his own confounding situation.

But Inara was not confounding in the least, in John's opinion. She was beautiful, gracious, and relaxed, conducting conversation naturally, putting him and even Sherlock at ease within minutes. Her long black waves of hair, her colorful silks that draped over her curves, and her beguiling dark eyes had him half-seduced, but her kindness, her wit, won him over completely. She soon had John talking more about himself and his adventures with Sherlock than he had intended.

John realized he'd been talking for rather a while and stopped short. "I think the ale has loosened my tongue a bit," he joked.

"It's not the ale," Sherlock said softly at his right.

John just looked at him, knowing better than to ask.

"It's her."

John looked up to Inara, half-apologetic already for whatever was going to come out of Sherlock's mouth next.

Sherlock looked over to her. "You're very clever."

"Thank you," Inara replied automatically, but the smile slipped a fraction.

"Well-spoken. Self-deprecating. Flattering John just enough to make him feel appreciated, but not so much as to seem insincere."

Inara's face remained pleasant, but wariness tugged at her eyes.

"Granted, John would be charmed by your looks alone-" John rolled his eyes at this and bit back a sigh of exasperation.

"-but he wouldn't open up quite so much about himself so quickly; that's the real trick," Sherlock said, not without admiration.

Inara sat up a bit straighter. "I wouldn't call it a trick," she replied, giving him a polite smile.

"No." Sherlock clasped his hands together and leaned forward a bit over the table. "Not a trick. A skill," he clarified, as though just realizing something. "One of a very many, I suspect."

John looked back and forth between them, certainly not understanding what Sherlock was insinuating about Inara, but quite certain he wasn't going to like how it played out.

Mal, on the other hand, huffed out a laugh, looking smug.

"That easy to tell she's a whore?" he said.

John's head snapped to Mal, astonished at his rudeness. "I beg your pardon?"

Even Sherlock had raised his eyebrows at Mal's comment.

"If I'm not mistaken, Miss Serra is a Companion," Sherlock answered crisply, emphasizing the last word.

Mal waved a hand. "Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"Hardly," Sherlock answered, and seemed ready to continue, but the lady in question spoke up.

"Please. I appreciate you trying to educate our captain on the nuances of my storied profession, but I fear you're wasting your time, Mr. Holmes," she said smoothly. She narrowed her eyes at Mal. "He still clubs his women and drags them back to his cave."

With that, Inara stood, gathering her plate and cup, and John stood also, half out of habit, half in deliberate contrast to Mal's behavior. She bowed her head the slightest bit to John, her eyes on his, and then turned, walking over to where Kaylee and Wash were gathering the dishes.

John looked down at Mal, who returned his gaze with a schooled, bland look that John recognized well enough as a challenge, nearly daring John to say something about the exchange. Back when John had been Mal's commanding officer, Mal's behavior would have earned him a serious dressing down. But John was feeling all ten years' worth of the distance from then to now.

John cleared his throat. "Well. It's been a long day. You'll forgive me for turning in early," he stated, and without waiting for Mal's answer, he gathered his own dishes and stepped away.

"Well done, Captain," John heard Sherlock say behind him. "Offending John Watson's strong moral principles, especially with respect to women-always a wise decision."

John noted Sherlock's heavy sarcasm and smiled.

_Notes: _

_wo de ga = mother of god _

_Probably. Again, use this cobbled Chinese at your own risk. _

_Also, did I mention comments make this writer's world go 'round? Cuz they do. Seriously, I appreciate every single one and thank you again to everyone for going on this journey with me. [love]_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock left the dining area not long after John, his exit quite calm by comparison. He walked down the endless stairs, through Serenity's cavernous cargo bay, fairly certain that River was watching him from the catwalk, but not minding in the least. He would have happily spent hours observing her, learning her language, but the desire to see John overwhelmed his usually insatiable need for something new.

Sherlock had known of John's attraction to him all along, of course; the conversation that first night at Angelo's had been telling, and John's eyes had given him away-

No. They hadn't betrayed him; his eyes simply reflected him. John was not one to dissemble, generally, and could never do it successfully with Sherlock anyway. His sharp intake of breath, his pauses when explaining that Irene Adler was alive and in a witness protection program had made it clear he was rubbish at lying to Sherlock.

Sherlock had watched John quash his attraction instantly, expertly, that first night. The moment Sherlock said "married to my work," John backpedaled, spoke of acceptance, and truly meant it. From then on, there was no tension in that regard; nothing was simmering beneath the surface, waiting for an opportune moment to erupt. And Sherlock silently thanked him for it. His sexuality had only ever been a bother to him, and his few relationships had only further convinced him that romance and sex were not worth his time.

But that was before he spent three years away from the person who knew him best, three years of experiencing the near physical pain of separation from the other half of himself.

After-

Well, it wasn't quite the same after.

John's initial reaction (Sherlock would have that tiny scar on his cheekbone for the rest of his life), the tears (on both their parts), the shouting (mostly John), and then all the looks, the significant touches-

Clearly, returning to their previous relationship was not possible. The strangely delicious tension between them that had never been there before had become a regular presence, slipping in between the cups of tea and the post-case crashes. But Sherlock had not expected this-he hadn't expected John to acknowledge their attraction, much less do something about it. Stupid, actually, not to. John had always been braver than him with expressing sentiment.

Certainly, Sherlock had always craved John's attention-John was right about that-and he'd do almost anything to keep it, to see John look at him again and again with near reverence, to hear him say _amazing brilliant fantastic_ one more time.

But lately, he wanted more.

He wanted that touch on his shoulder that meant _I just want to be sure of you_, the look that told him _I forgive you because I need you more than I need this anger_.

Now John was offering even more, something vague, yes, but _more_. He could have more touches, more looks, more John.

And so, walking slowly through the ship, Sherlock made his decision.

He found John in the smaller room, standing and facing away from the door. Despite the low light, Sherlock read the agitation in his shoulders, the line of his back. He stepped inside and closed the door.

"He's in love with her."

John shook his head, still looking away from Sherlock. "How can he love her and call her 'whore'?"

"Well, that," Sherlock began, walking closer to John to stand behind him, "was fear."

John turned his head a little, giving Sherlock his profile. Sherlock lowered his voice, in volume and pitch, and continued.

"Loving something, someone-it gives them power over us. Some people, like your erstwhile sergeant, can't allow that. Also, he clearly is threatened by her profession-either he's jealous, or fears he'll fail to measure up to her vast and varied experience, or he's riddled with shame-hard to say which. Perhaps all three. Whatever the cause, his use of that particular term this evening was driven by fear, not love."

"What makes you such an expert on relationships then?" John asked softly, without sarcasm.

Sherlock heard it as invitation, and dipped his head forward, lips near John's ear. He felt John go still.

"I see," Sherlock said.

He lifted his head slowly, sensed John tilting his chin up to follow him, lengthening his neck, and it strengthened Sherlock's resolve.

"I observe." His hand moved to rest on John's hip.

John leaned into it the slightest perceptible bit, and Sherlock shifted his fingers over the soft corduroy ridges of John's waistcoat.

"And I deduce," Sherlock continued, and his other hand came to rest on John's left shoulder, an echo of how John had touched him just that morning in their kitchen, their home.

John exhaled roughly. "And what have you come up with?" he asked, nearly ready to lean his body back against Sherlock's.

Sherlock's hands slipped away and he took a step backwards, and then he was turning, pacing the short distance over to the wall.

"I completely reject your terms," he said quickly, his voice less deep, instantly less intimate, and he didn't need to look to know that John had turned and fixed him with his keen, determined eyes.

"Explain." John's voice hovered near angry.

Sherlock rushed on. "You said 'flirt', that I either flirt with you myself or allow you-"

"'_Allow_'?" John repeated with heat, and Sherlock began speaking faster.

"Yes, _allow_ you to flirt with others; however, I don't see any benefit or purpose to flirting in general or with you specifically, and so I reject the term." He needed John to understand the expectations, to see what Sherlock wanted, but it would mean so much more if John read the clues and drew the conclusions himself.

John's brow lowered and Sherlock watched him reckon it. "So. Flirting's right out."

"Yes."

"Why? Exactly."

_Yes, yes, the right question_. "Because flirting is pointless."

"It's . . . fun," John countered.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Flirting is window dressing, it's passing the time, it's a way to ingratiate yourself to someone to get what you want. It doesn't promise any follow-through. It's absolutely harmless," he persisted. _Come on, John. Pick up the thread._

He watched the corner of John's mouth twitch upwards, saw the light in his eyes, and he found himself opening up with hope.

"Harmless."

_Yes_. "Yes."

"You," John rasped, stepping forward and crowding Sherlock nearer the wall.

"Are-" John's hands slid around each of Sherlock's wrists.

"Wrong," he finished, his grip pleasantly firm.

"Really?" Sherlock intoned.

"About so very many things," John said around a smile. "But I'll grant you. We shouldn't call it flirting."

"No," Sherlock agreed, and he stared at John's mouth.

"No. We should call it what it really is," John reasoned, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Sherlock inclined his head further, his own lips tingling.

"Which is what?" he asked, voice rough and low.

John released Sherlock's wrists, turning his hands to run the back of his fingers up the inside of Sherlock's forearms. Sherlock felt the touch climb up his spine, a sympathetic chain of sparks. John's hands paused, but he lifted his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"Foreplay."

_Thank God_. "Yes," Sherlock breathed out.

"Exclusivity," John added, dipping his chin, his voice wisping against Sherlock's throat.

"Of course," Sherlock sighed, lowering his head even more, his cheek ghosting along John's temple.

"Utter devotion," John finished as he brushed his forehead against Sherlock's slowly.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. _Perfect, exactly, yes._

"Yes," John answered.

Their breath mingled as they stood and the silence stretched between them, during which Sherlock's mind spun and whirled.

"But John-"

"No."

But Sherlock's nervousness bubbled up, words spilling. "I want to make it clear that-"

"Stop. Talking."

Sherlock frowned as he felt John's brow furrowing against his own. John explained, "Didn't we just play the game in which you decide to make me deduce things instead of just telling me?"

"Yes, but-"

"And-" John leaned his head back a bit to look into Sherlock. "Did I not deduce correctly?"

Sherlock blinked sluggishly, the blood inside him making him feel slower and faster at the same time. "Eventually, yes."

"And," John continued, "in case you hadn't noticed, we're having a moment here."

"I'm well aware of that, John; that is, in fact, what I'm talking about."

John closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "No, just-no. No talking."

"But-" John's right hand came up to cover Sherlock's mouth.

"Shut up," John ordered, but a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Can't," Sherlock mumbled against John's palm. _I'm bursting, aren't you bursting?_

John lifted his chin. "Shut up," he repeated.

"Impossible," Sherlock said lowly, the last syllable a soft kiss against John's skin.

"Shut up," John whispered, his hand sliding to cup Sherlock's jaw. "Shut up."

And Sherlock's lips parted to speak, but John reached up to meet them with his own. The shock of it surprised him, the energy sparking between them as he mapped John's lips with his own. _Smooth, warm, John._ Sensation, thought flowed over Sherlock as they kissed, as John's lips parted tentatively.

_No, don't be careful, John, don't be careful, don't be harmless, be you._

Sherlock deepened their kiss, and John pressed against him in response, his body from lips to chest to thigh cleaving firmly to him. Sherlock felt John's left arm slide up his back as his own arms encircled John in return.

John's right hand slid from jaw to nape, tilting Sherlock's head just so, and then the kiss became a dark thing, a kiss for back alleys and the back seats of cars. John's lips pursued him, and Sherlock let himself be caught. He opened for John, felt the wet, hot slide of tongue against tongue, the pull of John's lips taking his, assailing them until they became pink and swollen. Sherlock breathed raggedly, felt John's own rush of breath along his cheek. So many days, years without kissing, and now every day could have this, _would_ have this.

Then John was pulling away, inhaling deeply, leaving Sherlock bereft.

"Better than talking, yeah?" John asked, voice roughened around the edges.

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled, leaning his forehead against John's and catching his breath. "The language of birds."

"What?"

"What River Tam said to us. 'Raven, hawk', 'remember the language of the birds.'"

John pulled back a little to look at him, and Sherlock raised his head as well. John's eyes narrowed as he attempted to translate the strange girl's words. "You're... the raven."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm the hawk."

"Obviously."

"And this is how birds talk, is it?" John asked, the devil in his smile. _Wonderful John; always near the edges of the answer_.

"Birds court their mates," he corrected, a sparkle in his own eye. "They _woo_."

John raised an eyebrow. "Planning to court me, are you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, God, yes."

John began to smile back, but then Sherlock was sliding out of his arms, taking fast steps towards the door.

"I'll see you in the morning," Sherlock was saying without looking at John.

"Morning?" John echoed, brows knit in confusion.

Sherlock put a hand on the doorknob. "You should sleep."

John's features exploded in consternation. "Sleep!"

Sherlock looked over to him, puzzled. "Yes, sleep. One of us should-we land tomorrow afternoon."

John crossed his arms and squinted up at him. "And just what are you going to be doing instead of sleeping?"

Sherlock pulled the door open. "Going over the files for the case, of course."

John scrubbed his forehead and then dropped his hand. "Of course. Of course," he muttered to the floor.

Sherlock paused, eyes darting over John. _Angry? Frustrated? No, just confused._

And yet Sherlock's uncertainty entered his voice, the tone neither as strong nor smooth as he had hoped. "You did say it was up to me."

John looked up at him. One corner of his mouth tugged upward. "I did, didn't I?"

Kindness entered John's eyes, and Sherlock saw him accepting if not fully understanding. _But no. Something, something, what? Oh._ Sherlock's eyes widened and he came back into the room purposefully, stopping only inches from John. The heat between them returned instantly as Sherlock bent his head close to John's ear.

"I choose to woo," he murmured. He slowly pulled back to his full height. _Do you understand? I want you, I want this, but it must be done correctly, differently, better._

John looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, lips slackened and parted. His eyes opened fully and he nodded.

_Yes. Good._

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said, and he left the room, biting his lower lip in anticipation.

x-x-x

With sheets twisted and eyes bleary, John gave up on sleeping and simply stared at the clock near the bed, waiting for it to be a decent enough hour to get up, find Sherlock, find a wall, a bed to press him against . . .

No, he wouldn't. Probably.

Sherlock's behavior had thrown him a bit-kissing intensely one moment, then leaving abruptly, then looking so inconsolably unsure of himself that John wanted to hold his face and kiss him all over again, show him how sure John was, how they could be dangerous and safe together at the same time.

But Sherlock's words showed he clearly had some plan and John couldn't bring himself to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that Sherlock had already won him, ages ago.

If the madman wanted to woo him, he wouldn't argue-though he was a bit terrified to imagine what constituted courtship in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

The clock turned six, and he rose. As he dressed, his skin hummed with energy, sparking when his shirt slid over wherever Sherlock's hands and lips had been. Their kiss remembered made him giddy.

He walked through the ship aimlessly, but at the sound of footsteps on the catwalk above, he found himself a goal.

Time to mend a fence.

He located the captain in the dining area. He was seated, a cloth spread on one corner of the table where he was readying his gun for cleaning, a full mug set to one side.

"Morning," John offered.

Mal looked up, face neutral. "Mornin'."

John looked away, cleared his throat. Looked up again. "Listen, I shouldn't . . . it's none of my business what's going on with you two, and the woman is clearly capable of defending herself."

Mal cocked his head as he fussed with arranging his tools. "That she is."

John tapped his fingers on the back of a chair, not sure that meant all was well between them.

"There's coffee in the galley, if you're wantin' any."

John took the offer as a sign of truce, and walked over to serve himself a cup.

"Your piece need cleanin'?" Mal asked as John came back over.

John considered. He doubted his firearm needed it; he was meticulous himself about maintaining it. But it gave him an excuse to stay, something to do while talking and restoring the ease between them.

"Not a bad idea," John replied, and he removed his gun from its holster and settled himself on the other side of the corner from Mal. "Never know what trouble we'll get into on a case."

"Expectin' any?" Mal asked, looking up.

"Well, according to our client, there is a murderer on the loose," John allowed. "But the police think they've already caught their man, so."

"How long you think you'll need to be on Hera, then?" Mal asked.

"Hard to know; but Sherlock thinks this is an easy one, so, couple of days, maybe?"

Mal was silent for a moment. "We could stick around, if it's that quick. Get you back to Londinium." He nonchalantly focused on his task, keeping his eyes down.

John knew what Mal was offering. It would cost him opportunities to stay and wait for them. "If it's no trouble for you-"

"No fuss either way," Mal said quickly.

This was a language John spoke fluently; he was familiar with the ways of men like Malcolm Reynolds. Hell, he _was_ a man like Mal.

John was careful to look down and sound indifferent. "Thanks, then."

x-x-x

_No Chinese this time, but continued thank yous to my betas, who volunteer to keep helping me with this and I love them for it: i_ship_an_armada, snogandagrope, wiggleofjudas, and kitkate. *smooches*_


	5. Chapter 5

Long after their weapons were cleaned and their tools were put away, Mal and John settled at the table and talked, taking advantage of the time to reminisce properly and catch up on the decade since they'd been separated. Zoe found them early on, and once the cards appeared, Jayne joined them as well.

By the time the others were floating in and out for breakfast, Zoe and Jayne were up, Mal was breaking even, and John was losing horribly, completely unable to concentrate as thoughts of Sherlock kept entering his mind.

And then the man himself appeared: black trousers, tucked-in burgundy shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled up, every inch of exposed skin calling to John like a siren.

"Morning," John said, hoping to sound normal.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled. He headed straight for the coffee.

"Oh, come on, Watson, you're not even tryin'," Jayne chided as John lost another hand. "It's like takin' candy from a kid in a candy store."

John shot a querying look to Zoe and she shook her head.

"Not much of a card shark," John excused.

"No," Sherlock concurred, bringing his mug over. He placed the drink on the table and pulled his compact encyclopedia from his trouser pocket as he settled into a chair next to Zoe. "No, John's expertise lies in other areas."

"Well, we know about the shootin' and cookin'," Mal acknowledged.

"And _inspiring_ the troops," Zoe teased. Sherlock looked up at John.

"That's enough about that," John said with feigned sternness, the tips of his ears going warm.

"I'm guessin' you're more than fair at doctorin'," Mal continued.

"Anything else we should know about?" Zoe asked.

"No, nothing. Absolutely nothing," John professed, eager to change the subject. "No, I'm very ordinary, just let me sit here and lose my money, please."

Sherlock frowned. "_Our_ money," he sniped. "Since you're losing anyway, why don't you come over here and make yourself useful? We do have a case to solve, after all."

John tried not to smile at being asked to do exactly what he wanted to do anyway. "Yeah, all right," he said, dropping his cards. He pushed his meager pile of chips over to Zoe with a smile.

John came around to Sherlock's other side and sat next to him, noticing Sherlock's somewhat rigid posture and the way he flicked open the encyclopedia.

"So, while you were sleeping, I've gone over the files Alicia Turner sent us," Sherlock said, his tone oddly cold. "The coroner's report, if-"

John slid his hand across Sherlock's left wrist under the table, and Sherlock stuttered.

"If-if you can-"

John trailed his fingers slowly, gently up Sherlock's forearm, finally touching the skin that had been on his mind since the night before.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "If you can call it that," he managed, and John calmly withdrew his hand.

Sherlock grinned crookedly at him for a split second, and John kept his features as neutral as possible.

"Well, uh. Small town like Ross, they probably don't have the funds to pay a proper pathologist," John filled in as he watched Sherlock recover.

"Yes, and that, coupled with the ineptitude of the local constabulary means that we've got our work cut out for us." Sherlock took a breath and John knew the rush of words that heralded.

"Here are the facts, as far as I have been able to piece together.

"Our client's father came to Hera from Shadow and bought up a large parcel of land in the Boscombe Valley, about six miles from town. He let the farm, Hatherly, to a friend of his from Shadow, Charles McCarthy. Both men were apparently friends, both widowers who raised their only children on their own. Indeed, our client and the accused have been friends since childhood.

"Now, two days ago, Charles McCarthy rushed home to Hatherly Farm about three in the afternoon and walked to the lake on their shared property, having told his driver that he had an urgent appointment to keep.

"The gamekeeper says he then saw McCarthy pass and, but a few minutes later, saw his son James McCarthy pass as well, with a gun under his arm.

"The second witness, a girl of fourteen, Prudence Roman, was picking flowers in the woods near the lake; she claims to have heard father and son arguing so violently that she ran home to alert her mother. A few moments after, James McCarthy appeared at Romans' door, saying he had just found his father dead. He did not have his gun with him, and had blood upon his right hand and sleeve.

"Sheriff Karina Boudin was called and she followed James back to the lake where Charles McCarthy lay dead. She found James' gun nearby and the injuries to the victim's head were found to be consistent with blows from the butt of the gun. James was arrested immediately."

Sherlock paused, sitting back in his chair a fraction.

"Pardon me sayin', but it seems fairly obvious so far," Zoe commented.

Sherlock waggled his index finger. "Ah, but there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. However, the case against James is certainly a strong one, since he, in fact, confessed."

"Confessed?!" Jayne blurted.

Sherlock waved a hand. "Essentially. James stated that he was not surprised at being arrested and that, indeed, he deserved it. He has said nothing since."

John squinted. "That's odd."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Isn't it, though?"

"Why 'odd'?" Mal said.

"Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The rest of this case is featureless, commonplace. But it is the _nature_ of James McCarthy's confession that is unusual," Sherlock answered.

"How's that?" Mal asked, his cards forgotten for the moment. John smiled to see how Sherlock had gained the attention of everyone at the table, and noticed his eyes sparkling just a little more because of it. And then, Sherlock said nothing, his gaze trained on the encyclopedia in front of him. _Ah_. Sherlock wanted John to answer, to hear what John would say.

"Well, most killers who confess right away are either remorseless and proud of what they've done, or else they're desperate to explain why they had no choice but to do what they've done. In either case, they tend to recount their deeds in great detail," John explained, and, because he was looking for it, John saw Sherlock's slight nod of approval.

"And this man didn't," Zoe filled in.

Sherlock took over again. "No. No. He simply said that he could see why the sheriff believed that he killed his father and that he deserved whatever punishment they might set upon him."

"And nothing else?" John prodded.

"No. It seems to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

"You and your paradoxes," John teased gently.

"Think you'll need back up?" Mal asked.

John sighed. "Let's hope not." He gave Mal a grateful look. "But it's good to know we'll have it if we need it."

"We're stickin' around this crap town?" Jayne protested, frowning at Mal. Zoe said nothing but looked to Mal for an answer as well.

"Yeah, why not? Ross is as good a town as any to take our ease for a day or two," Mal argued.

"It's a ruttin' hill of _go se_," Jayne argued.

"Yeah, well, it ain't so fine as say, Canton, but it'll serve," Mal said with finality.

Zoe smiled. "Sounds good to me, sir."

As the three returned to their card game, John turned to Sherlock.

"Anything else?" he asked softly.

"No," Sherlock answered, still looking down at the screen of his encyclopedia. "There's an appalling lack of detail in these reports-"

"Nothing else you want to discuss?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at him then.

"Perhaps out in the hall?" John suggested.

Sherlock's eyes darted to John's lips and back up to his eyes. "Oh. Oh! Yes," he answered, beginning to rise from his chair. "Right away. Can't wait another moment."

He stood and made his way to the door, adding imperiously, "Come on, John."

John shook his head, not daring to look back that the others to see their reactions, and stood, following his madman out the doorway.

He had barely stepped into the dimly lit passageway that he felt Sherlock take him by the arm and pull him to the side.

Sherlock had him tucked in a dark corner, and John's pulse jumped in response, his breath coming more quickly already as Sherlock simply leaned in.

"You're brilliant," he said, voice low in John's ear.

"What? Because I-" John drew in a breath as Sherlock planted kisses along his jaw. "Because I'll use any excuse to get you away for a snog?" he finished softly.

"Yes," Sherlock rumbled, and his kisses intensified, his hands coming to rest on John's hips, fingering the edges of his waistcoat.

John melted against Sherlock's lips, moaning as the kisses moved towards his throat, but quietly, aware that they might be overhead. He could easily hear conversation drifting out from the dining area, the voices somewhat muffled but occasionally clear.

"You know, for being"-John sought the right word, distracted by Sherlock's hands running up and down his sides-"inexperienced, you certainly seem to know what you're doing."

Sherlock slid a hand to John's nape. "I do my research," he said, and then Sherlock kissed his lips. His tongue immediately demanded entrance, and John parted for him eagerly, his breath soughing against Sherlock's cheek as the kiss deepened. His arms tightened around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's hand at his neck pressed John's lips to his more firmly. His other hand curled around John's arse, riveting their bodies together, and John broke their kiss with a gasp. Sherlock's lips simply migrated back to John's neck.

"You realize we're both rubbish at taking things slowly," John murmured.

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle against John's skin, setting off a wave of heat over John's body. He bit off a groan, keeping his noises contained as Sherlock teased his skin with tongue and lips and teeth.

John heard their names float above the din from the other room, and he came down off their cloud a bit.

"Sherlock," John whispered, but Sherlock showed no sign of hearing him.

"Sherlock," he tried again. "Someone's looking for us."

"Mmm." The kisses simply moved to the other side of his neck, and John surrendered for a moment, skin alive and tingling.

John heard their names again, and "just left" and "hallway," but, really, it was impossible to stop. He snaked a hand up into Sherlock's hair and nested there, holding him ever closer.

The footfalls on the stairs should have stopped him, but it was Sherlock who stilled and turned to look.

Inara stood only paces away from them, tresses pulled elegantly away from her face, her dress a deep red embroidered in gold. She smiled kindly as they released each other, and Sherlock turned his body to face her.

"Good morning." She greeted them as if she had come upon them at the breakfast table. She turned her head to address John, who was certain he was blushing. "I was wondering if I could borrow Sherlock."

"Of course," John answered.

Sherlock smirked. "I think he'd happily give you his right arm if you asked him for it."

She smiled at them both and her eyes went to John, who looked back and forth between them in silence. "Don't worry. I'll give him right back."

She turned towards the doorway, her gaze down.

Sherlock looked to John, who nodded, and then stepped forward and offered his arm to her.

John watched her slip her hand around to rest on Sherlock's forearm, and they walked up the steps together.

_Christ_. Still reeling and half-hard, he scrubbed a hand over his face and shuddered. He moved towards the staircase. He'd seen a heavy bag downstairs in the gym alcove; it wouldn't hurt to burn off some energy.

x-x-x

"May I offer you tea?" Inara asked once they'd entered her shuttle. She released his arm and stepped further into the room.

He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and narrowed his eyes. "You didn't invite me here for tea."

"No. Still, I find it gives one something to do while considering what to say next," she answered.

"I'll have the talking first, I think," Sherlock said. He had always found women-especially clever, beautiful women-difficult to read, and his experiences with Irene Adler made him doubly cautious. So far Inara had not used her charms for any selfish or manipulative purpose, but he remained wary.

"I recognized your last name."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"I believe I know your brother, Mycroft."

He wrinkled his nose in reflexive distaste.

"_Socially_, not... professionally," she hastened to clarify.

"Thank God," Sherlock answered, shuddering dramatically.

"I know Simon believes you when you say you won't turn him or River in, but I don't think he knows the position your brother holds in the Alliance," Inara continued.

"And you do?" Sherlock countered.

"I know enough not to cross him," she answered.

"Mmm." Sherlock paused. "You're an interesting puzzle, Miss Serra."

"I'd take that as a compliment if I didn't fear what you might say next," she replied.

Sherlock continued as though she had not spoken. "With your education and training, your status, you could literally choose your place in life and yet you elect to tether yourself to pirates and misfits, flitting around the universe with no plan other than blowing where the wind takes you. Can't be good for business," he said, cocking his head at her.

"It has its challenges," she admitted, but her polite facade was beginning to crack.

"But also its rewards. People you feel close to, people you love, given the way you reacted when I called them pirates and misfits."

"He's not a pirate," she said forcefully. She caught herself and schooled her features.

Sherlock could not stop himself. "Ah. 'Tis the strumpet's plague; to beguile many and be beguiled by one.'"

Her eyes turned cold. "Quoting Shakespeare doesn't give you the right to call me 'strumpet'," she reproached him. "He's _not_ a pirate and they're not misfits."

"Of course they are. And so are you."

Inara blinked at him, her decorum shaken. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"You don't fit. A profession in which you must devote every thought and care to the pleasure and ease of others, and you can't get away from it fast enough." He stepped closer to her, his eyes pinpointing hers. "You're out to find a little comfort and happiness of your own, and you're trying to find it in a man who hates what you do as much as you do."

Inara paled.

"What side were you on?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" she said weakly.

"In the war. Outwardly you must have sided with the Alliance; couldn't afford to alienate your bread and butter, after all. But here you are, out in the black, as independent as a companion can be."

Sherlock watched as Inara decided which face to show him. Her spine had straightened, her chin lifted ever so slightly in defiance, but, almost as though she realized she was only proving his point, she changed tactics.

She looked down. _Submission_.

"You see a lot, Mr. Holmes," she admitted. _Concession. Respect, but also distance._

When she met his eyes, her carefully constructed smile was in place. "However, we've drifted from the matter at hand."

He looked at her to continue.

"It's very simple." Her smile disappeared. "Cause no trouble for me or mine."

Sherlock disliked being told what to do on principle. "Or what?" he challenged.

She shook her head as though amazed her possible threat hadn't occurred to him. "How hard do you think it would be to take John Watson from you?"

_Take John?_ Sherlock's brows pulled together and then his eyes widened in undisguised surprise. Though she clearly disliked having been put in the position to outline her threat and indeed, seemed unlikely to follow through on it, he felt her words as physical blows.

She continued, for his edification, it seemed. "You take. He gives. At some point he's going to want to _receive_."

The truth of it hit Sherlock like a revelation, and he he smiled at her. "You know, you're absolutely right."

It was her turn to be surprised.

"However, you've completely overestimated my interest in anyone aboard this ship other than John," he asserted. "My goal here is mere transport."

"Well," Inara began, recovering herself. "Then I am sorry to have troubled you," she finished politely.

"I'll allow you to make it up to me," Sherlock said immediately.

"Oh?"

"Tea. And a lesson." He looked around himself to find an advantageous spot to sit.

She looked sharply at him. "In?"

"Giving. Obviously."

Inara's eyebrows lifted, but she moved to prepare the tea as Sherlock settled into a chair.

x-x-x

_go se = excrement/shit_  
_(Such lovely conversational Chinese you're learning from this fic!)_ _Also, there are little easter eggs here and there throughout this fic; they pop in when I'm feeling tricksy and I just leave them in there, at least three so far. They are random and ridiculous-don't feel bad if you didn't see them! Holler if you want hints, shinysherlock _dot_ tumblr _dot_ com _slash_ ask_


	6. Chapter 6

_Seriously M rating in this chapter, folks; I actually debated whether or not to tone it down because of ffnet TOS, but agh. The line between M and Explicit is a shifty one. Extra thanks to KitKate this time around for making sure I didn't reveal my utter lack of violin knowledge. Continued thanks to all my betas; this chapter required more than the usual amount of hand holding on their part._ x-x-x

She perches.

She watches.

The swans drift back and forth, always touching as they pass, touching with their eyes. Their language needs no words, they have been swimming together so well so long.

The hawk sharpens his beak, his talons, always ready. The kite joins, for he knows another hunter when he sees one.

The lark flits. The hawk and the kite try to teach her to hunt, but it's not her way. She sways on the branch and watches them spar and her song is light on water.

Her nightingale comes, bothered by the hunters. He settles on the branch with her, songbird with songbird. The hunters turn away.

Soon the crane will appear, long, light bones and eloquent feathers always shifting, and for all his bluster the kingfisher will follow.

The raven comes to perch beside her, clever and cunning, too clever, always thinking. He tracks the hawk, hears the larksong, worries and frets.

_How does a raven court?_

_He must sing._

x-x-x

Sherlock Holmes was a genius. He knew this. He made sure everyone else knew it as well.

But.

This was sentiment. His Achilles' heel. And so Sherlock Holmes was nervous.

He had dashed to his room, seeking the violin case that John had packed for him, building the plan in his mind.

_I'll play for him, John loves it when I play (properly). His eyes glaze over, his mouth hangs open, the visible expression of brilliant amazing fantastic._

_I'll woo him with my raven song._

And at that, Sherlock Holmes scowled at himself._ I've been rendered poetic, that's what this is doing to me, what _he_ is doing to me. What exactly is being done to me? It keeps shifting and dancing, refusing to stay on the glass and be examined._ He was running on instinct and emotion, and though he had sought advice from a master, her counsel had been a mixture of clinically detailed and irritatingly vague. In the end, it boiled down to "think of what John might like and give it to him."

"He likes _me_," Sherlock had snapped, frustrated.

_He likes it when I play_, he thought now, looking down at the case, the case that John had chosen to bring along. _He likes it when I kiss him._ And wasn't that strange? He had assumed everything would stay relatively the same. A physical component added to the relationship, simple. But, no. Every kiss had been a bloody revelation, absolutely exploding beyond logic, and if they ever progressed to more, Sherlock feared he'd not be able to breathe, much less think.

And now here he was, holding the violin in his hands, running his fingers delicately over the strings, and the poetry wouldn't leave him alone.

_You'll sing for me._

_You'll take my words and sing the song of us._

Sherlock walked through the cargo bay with violin and bow in hand, focused and steady, ignoring the looks from anyone other than John.

John.

Who noticed right away.

Who stopped what he was doing and stepped closer.

Who said nothing and didn't have to.

_What's this, then?_

_A gift._

John settled himself against one of the crates piled near the center, and Sherlock continued a bit further. By the time he reached the acoustical center of the bay, the flock had gathered, and, seeing John's stillness, quieted themselves.

The first notes came low and rough, and Sherlock paused.

His genius may have loved an audience, but this was not about genius.

He looked to John. His John. He closed his eyes and began again.

It was a song he had never played before.

It was a song he knew by heart.

This time the roughness was merely a starting point. Sherlock worked himself into the sound he wanted, taking the harshness and twisting it, bending the phrases until they spoke his thoughts.

Agitation simmered, constant, as frustration angled in and out, and Sherlock's entire body echoed the tenor of his composition, face tense, weight shifting as the bow flew over the strings. This was the tale of before-before John. Sherlock took himself back in time, remembering the unendurable restlessness, his loneliness that he admitted to no one, though others saw it, saw it easily, even. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft-they knew him well enough. But they weren't John.

As Sherlock thought of their meeting, the pace of the music changed almost of its own volition, nearly a halt and a restarting, and the notes of agitation faded, replaced by something new. Surprise. Hope.

His song became the sound of rooftops and hallways, the lighter, faster notes of joy racing up and down the scale in a dizzying series of runs, bow and strings together telling the story of John's influence, though inadequately, as always-words, notes, they never expressed it quite right, though Sherlock's fingers worked in earnest, flying along the fingerboard. How could they possibly? Sherlock had lived it and scarcely believed it.

His heart beat faster, through exertion, through the reliving of their tale. He began weaving in themes from their most memorable adventures, his attention darting from one case to the next, but always coming back to the center, coming back home, back to John.

Sherlock slipped into a musical twilight, aware only of the notes and how they ran around him, through him, urging him to feel, to move. Did he control the composition? Did the music dictate his movements? It was impossible to tell, and it hardly mattered.

Darkness crept into their tale, the lower, deeper notes of the villain rising insistently, beating down the harmonious ebb and flow that had come before.

Knowing now how it ended, it all seemed so clear, how he had fallen so completely into his enemy's hands, had beaten him, yes, but at such a high and terrible cost.

Lips pressed together but trembling all the same, Sherlock told the story of the fall, the tension building, the pace increasing, until the song hit its crescendo.

And then silence. Stepping off the edge.

Sherlock stood completely still a moment, nearly a statue except for the sweat collecting along his hairline, the rough rise and fall of his chest. His bow hovered above the strings. When they finally touched again, it was to pull one long, mournful note, seemingly endless, an elegy not for Sherlock, but for Sherlock and John, for what they were, for what they would never, ever be again.

The song stuttered, turned, restarted. Utter sadness, anger, and hurt bounced off each other within its rhythms, and Sherlock's face contorted in clearly remembered pain. Of course, John had told him his own feelings during that time, told him with his words, his face, his fists (they don't talk about that), but the song spoke now of his own struggle, his daily fight to protect his friends, his nightly battle not to give in to sentiment, not to send John a clue, to call him,_ I'm not dead, I'm doing this to you for you, I'll come back to you, I'll come back for you._

And then it happened. The last strand severed, the web dismantled, and the tone became quietly victorious.

_Home_.

And the reunion was loud, and violent, and awful, but-

_Home_.

And things were strange and John refused to move back in, yet-

_Home_.

And they were together under one roof again, solving crimes, bickering over chores, and it wasn't perfect, and it would never be the same, but it was home, finally, home, with John making tea and walking in socks and touching his shoulder in the kitchen.

The bittersweet edge to the notes softened and eased. The song's earlier happiness echoed in the background, though its key had changed.

And though he might have ended it there, he really couldn't end it there, for their song was still being written, and he hoped he might never finish, that there would forever be more to tell.

The song stilled, as did Sherlock's body, and again he held the bow above the strings, but this time, the note was high and long, the sound of anticipation, the sound of something new.

And without much warning at all, the notes came together again, at first sparse, unadorned, continuing the theme, but soon, the tone shifted, and Sherlock found himself surrounded by poetry yet again as he thought of decisions made, kisses had, kisses yet to come. He found himself and his song becoming helplessly (_unforgivably!_) romantic. Tchaikovsky would have been proud, Mycroft appalled, but Sherlock could not have stopped for anything, the music soaring and dipping, refusing to be pinned. He found himself swaying into it, bow flying in trills and flourishes that seemed to break away from him of their own accord.

The song was singing itself now-expansive, sensuous-and building with its own drama and intensity until, with one last phrase, one last echo, it was over. Sherlock had found the last note, the point at which one more would have been too much, and he lowered his bow, lifted the violin away, and stood, chest heaving, eyes still shut against the rest of the world.

He felt more than heard John come to stand before him, felt John's hands come up to cradle his face.

Courage fortified by John's touch, he dared to look, and saw John's own gaze shining back at him. He had seen it all, heard it all.

"Amazing," he said hoarsely, smiling, and Sherlock huffed softly, lowering his forehead to press against John's.

He felt John's hand slide down and take the bow from him, the other hand come to slip around his. "Shall we?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

They walked calmly through the ship, back to Sherlock's room. The door closed, and they moved into each other at the same moment. Sherlock's arms went around John's waist immediately as John reached up with one hand to tangle in Sherlock's hair as the other went to the small of his back, pressing them closer together.

Sherlock fixed his piercing gaze on John's eyes. "For you," he said.

He moved forward, pressing in with soft lips, drunkenly, slowly, and John's lips became warm and swollen beneath his.

"Sherlock," John whispered, the name a warm breath against his skin.

He hummed against John's ear in response, and John tucked his head against Sherlock's chest, unable to keep still, unable to get close enough. Sherlock moved his kisses along John's neck, and his fingers snuck under the corduroy waistcoat and pulled out his shirttails.

Breathing out roughly through his nose as they kissed, John slid his hand from Sherlock's back down to his arse and squeezed. Sherlock surged forward in response, pressing himself against John's belly, feeling John's own length against his thigh.

Too many clothes.

Sherlock arched away for a moment, fingers reaching up to undo the buttons of John's waistcoat, and John pulled at Sherlock's shirt, untucking it from his trousers. They battled with unbuttoning each other's shirts, still trying to kiss, but it was inefficient at best, and Sherlock growled.

John smiled, and began unbuttoning his own shirt, and Sherlock raced to do the same. Shirts finally shed in a heap, they stood still before each other.

Sherlock's eyes roamed from lips to belly to scar. He had seen all of it before, even touched before, but context, context was everything, and everything was new. His hands reached out, exploring fingers moving over collarbone and chest, over nipples that tightened beneath his touch. He pushed gently until John took a backwards step, until his back pressed against the wall behind him. Sherlock's hands continued moving, drifting across the lightly furred belly. He paused at the edge of John's trousers and looked up.

John met his gaze. Licked his lips. Sherlock let out a sigh.

John looked down at Sherlock's hovering fingers, then lifted his eyes. His hands went to his own buckle, and Sherlock watched as he unbuttoned, unzipped. John paused.

Sherlock looked up questioningly, but John only cocked his head towards Sherlock's own buckle.

"Oh," Sherlock said, hurrying to comply.

John shook his head a bit, smiling as he toed off his shoes. He watched as Sherlock mirrored his movements until both of them were stepping out of the last bit of their clothes.

Sherlock's eyes focused in on John's erection; he wanted to see, touch, taste. His hands went up to John's sides, sliding down to John's hips as in one smooth motion he knelt.

John's breath came faster. "You don't have to-"

A ridiculous token protest. "Shut up," Sherlock said. His hands came forward, fingers dancing over John, stroking and cupping like he was taking the measure of him, and John moaned above him, his head hanging low.

Sherlock's hands retreated back to John's hips, and then he leaned forward, pressing his nose against John's hair, moving his closed lips up, over, down as he nuzzled John's erection.

John made a small noise, and his hands came to rest lightly along Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock wet his lips, and with mouth slightly parted, repeated the motion, and as John's hands flexed encouragingly, he continued, letting his tongue dart out, his teeth graze delicately.

"_Jesus_."

Sherlock smiled against him, and then began kissing and licking his way up John's shaft until, when he reached the top, he tucked his lips over his teeth and slid down, taking John's fullness into his mouth.

John groaned, and his head fell back against the wall with a thump. His hands were kneading at Sherlock's shoulders now as Sherlock began moving slowly, sliding down up down. Having set up a smooth rhythm, Sherlock pressed his tongue firmly against the ridge as he moved up, then paused, swirling around the corona as he reached the head.

His breath ragged, John sighed above him, his hands lifting away, and when Sherlock repeated the swirling motion with his tongue, John cried out softly, his hands coming to thread into Sherlock's hair and cradle his head gently. Sherlock's scalp tingled at the feel of John's fingers caressing him, settling against him, and he hummed his approval around John. He heard John huff out around a smile and felt him flex his fingers and grip Sherlock's hair a bit tighter.

Sherlock responded by sliding his long fingers around to frame John's arse and then using that leverage to increase his pace, to take John in a little deeper.

John sucked in his breath and gave a small thrust with his hips, asking permission. Sherlock encouraged him with a moan, and John pressed into Sherlock's pliant mouth, holding his head firmly and settling into a faster pace, thrusting deeper as Sherlock spurred him on with his hands, pulling him forward into his mouth.

"Ah, God," John tried. "Close," he managed, though Sherlock had already sensed the tension building, felt it under his tongue, under his hands, felt it in the tangle of fingers in his hair.

Sherlock sealed his lips around John and sucked, felt John twitch and swell inside his mouth. John let go of Sherlock's hair and his hands pressed gently at Sherlock's shoulders, but Sherlock simply tightened his hold on John and stayed where he was. John's hands stilled. Sherlock swirled once more, and then John was crying out, his orgasm pulsing over Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock swallowed around the aftershocks, breathing raggedly through his nose, but soon John was slipping out of his mouth and then his whole body was sliding down to kneel in front of him.

John's eyes were dark. "Brilliant," he said breathlessly, and he leaned towards Sherlock, lifting his right hand up to Sherlock's cheek. His fingers moved to press at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock opened, letting his tongue wind lazily around them, wetting them thoroughly.

John blinked slowly at him and smiled. "Bloody brilliant," he said. He removed his fingers, lowered his hand, and kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

"Your turn, love," he said, voice low, and Sherlock moaned at the endearment.

John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's solid length, his touch maddeningly confident and firm, and Sherlock gasped as sensation shot through him. John's hand began to move, sliding up, down, keeping the pressure constant, and Sherlock felt the pleasure coiling inside him like a spring. John looked downwards, and Sherlock watched as well as John's hand worked him, thumb flicking over the head.

"Gorgeous," John said, and he lifted his eyes. "Gorgeous," he repeated, and crushed his lips to Sherlock's hard.

Sherlock grunted into John's mouth, reveled at John's tongue dipping in and filling his mouth as the hand increased its pace below. John's other hand wound into Sherlock's hair, nails scratching firmly against his scalp, and Sherlock groaned.

"Yeah, I thought so," John whispered, smiling against Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock sank against him, utterly gone. At the same moment, John deepened the kiss and made a fist in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock moaned and pumped his hips in response, encouraging John's accelerating pace. John broke the kiss and pulled back on Sherlock's hair, exposing the long neck.

_Do it. I want it. Do it._

John pressed his mouth against the delicate skin on one side of Sherlock's neck, just beneath his jaw. John's teeth scraped against him, sending sparks to his groin.

Yes. He was panting now.

John licked the skin, blew on it gently, and Sherlock thought he might perish from anticipation.

And then John bit him, enough to hurt, enough to mark, his teeth sharp against the sensitive skin, and Sherlock exploded with sensation. He cried out, his orgasm spurting over their bellies, over John's hand. John loosened his grip, holding Sherlock as he pulsed. The hand in his hair became gentle once more, and the kisses at his ear were soft. They leaned into each other as Sherlock caught his breath.

"Perfect," John was saying. "Perfect."


	7. Chapter 7

"All right. Show's over," Mal said from where he stood by Jayne, breaking the silence that had followed after Sherlock's performance.

"Looks like it's just startin'," Jayne joked, his eyes trailing after Sherlock and John as they disappeared through the passage towards the dorms.

"Take it to your bunk, Jayne," Mal ordered.

Jayne balked. "What? I ain't sly!"

Mal glowered at him and Jayne bit his tongue. He turned and stalked over to the gym alcove.

"That was the most beautiful thing I ever seen," Kaylee sighed. Mal and Simon both looked over to her.

"He's a very talented violinist," Simon allowed.

Kaylee shook her head. "Naw, that weren't just a song; that was a _serenade_. Oh, it's so romantic!"

Mal frowned. All this talk of relationships and romance was wearing on his nerves.

Kaylee smiled, her bright mood undeterred. "And now they're gonna have sex!" she cried, clasping her hands together.

Simon laughed nervously.

Mal blinked at her, his face blank, and then walked away.

Sex. Relationships. Love. Mal shook his head as he made his way back upstairs. Nothing but trouble is what it added up to. Every time he tried to sort women out it gave him a headache.

The only woman who had ever made a lick of sense to him was his mother. She had worked hard, laughed easily, and never played games with people.

He remembered very little of his father, and always his thoughts of him were tinged with unease. One of the older hands had told him a story once, when he'd been an ungrateful teenager and mouthed off at his mother, about a four-year-old Mal, a beating, and Jessie Reynolds running her husband off the ranch with a shotgun. He didn't know if it was true. But it sounded true. It explained things some.

Some.

But his life was full of earthquakes and tidal waves, and anything that had been solid had disintegrated, melted away. Shadow was uninhabitable now, a black rock of wasteland. The war he had believed in, the army he had sworn allegiance to, had lost, had been rewritten and recast so that truth was so much water, slipping through his fingers.

Everything that had been land was sea.

And when he stepped towards the galley, saw her profile, tilted up, looking at the stars through the glass dome, he gave up entirely on the idea of anchors.

She was a gorram siren. And he was only human.

He came to stand next to her, following her gaze with his eyes.

"Landin' soon," he said.

She made a small hum of acknowledgment.

"Not much business for you on Hera, I expect."

She swallowed. "I don't care," she answered softly, still looking up, and he heard the catch in her voice.

Mal's eyebrows drew together. He shifted his weight. _Now or never_, he told himself. Damned if he was going to let Serenity's passengers show more courage than her captain.

"When I say . . . things, it's the profession I'm disrespectin'. Not . . . not you," he said, finally turning his eyes to her face.

"I know," she answered. Her voice was soft and fragile in his ears, and he could swear she had been crying, or was on the verge of crying from the sound of her, the shine in her eyes. He felt the heat of her hand hanging just an inch from his.

Her lower lip trembled. "I know you want to think who I am is separate from what I do," she began. She lowered her head and looked at him, eyes bright with gathering tears. "But it's not. No matter how much we wish it to be."

And for once, Mal looked past the negative and heard the positive. "'We'?" he repeated, his voice made raggedy by hope.

And now a tear did escape, sliding down her cheek as she nodded. He breathed in sharply, and she inclined her head, leaning her face against his shoulder, and it would be so easy to turn just a bit, to enfold her in his arms.

"Hey, Cap'n, we should be landing in about thirty minutes," Wash was saying as he walked through the galley without really seeing them, but then Mal and Inara sprang apart like guilty teenagers and Wash backpedaled. "And I'll be going now," he said, turning 180 degrees and making his way back towards the doorway.

Mal cleared his throat. "I'll come with ya," he called after Wash, and began following his pilot to the bridge. He didn't, wouldn't look back.

x-x-x

Wash had set down in a clearing above the town, a sort of natural landing pad surrounded by a ring of trees.

"All set, Mal. Need anything?" Wash asked.

"Nah. Jayne'll take watch."

"Oh, good," Wash answered, "Because that always ends well."

"I'm in no mood for quibblin', Wash," his captain retorted, and Wash put up his hands in mock surrender.

"No quibbles here. I'm just gonna . . . go find my wife." Wash stood, ready to leave, but then turned and gave Mal a sympathetic smile. He seemed ready to speak, but the glare Mal gave him must have changed his mind, and he made his way off the bridge and back to his and Zoe's quarters.

Mal grabbed his coat and walked down to the cargo bay, where John and Sherlock were emerging from the passenger dorms. Mal noticed the pair had tidied up, hair still wet from showering, and wondered if he was the only person on his boat not getting any, but then he saw Simon a step behind them.

"You two off to solve a murder now?" Mal asked them.

"That is the goal," Sherlock answered.

Mal looked to John and frowned the slightest bit. His eyes flicked down to the coat across his arm.

"Why don't you come with us?" John suggested, picking up Mal's hint.

Sherlock glanced at John but said nothing.

"Yeah, all right," Mal answered coolly, and he pulled on the long brown duster.

x-x-x

The four men met with Alicia Turner in the town's only eating establishment, a combination restaurant and saloon that had an air of resignation about it. The only patrons that afternoon, they sat in a circle around a low oval table. The place was small and shabby, but clean, and the tea was hot and strong, so John had no complaints.

Alicia herself was earnest, beautiful, and young, truly believing in the innocence of her childhood friend.

"I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too," Alicia implored.

To John's complete surprise, Sherlock was bordering on kind.

"It's quite probable that he is so," Sherlock declared, and John stared at him. "Be assured, Miss Turner; we will do all that we can."

John gaped at Sherlock's solicitousness.

"We will need to interview your father," Sherlock continued.

"Oh, I'm afraid the doctor won't allow that," Alicia replied, shaking her head.

"And why not?" Simon interjected. John had been about to ask the same thing.

"Oh, he's in a bad way; this news has broken him down completely and he has taken to his bed. Dr. Willows says his nervous system is shattered."

John glanced at Simon, who met his gaze, but neither said anything.

"You see, Mr. McCarthy was my dad's only friend left from Victoria," Alicia continued explaining.

"The minin' town?" Mal asked.

"Yes, sir, on Shadow."

"Gold mines, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked. John smirked. As if Sherlock hadn't memorized every fact in the case files the night before.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, that's how my father made his money."

"Well." Sherlock looked around the table briefly. "Thank you, Miss Turner. You've been of great assistance."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, gentlemen," she said, nodding. She rose, and the four of them stood as well.

"You're welcome to whatever you need on the property; it's a two hour ride, so I best be going myself."

"We'll be there first thing in the morning," Sherlock replied. "Can you ask your servants to keep away from the lake? Can't have anyone disturbing the evidence."

Alicia nodded. "Certainly. I have to attend to my father. You'll keep me informed?" she asked.

"Of course," John answered, and then she was gone.

John stared openly at Sherlock.

"What?"

John shook his head, pursed his lips. "Nothing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept out of the lobby, the others following him out onto the porch facing the main road.

"So. A 'shattered' nervous system," Sherlock said.

"Not a real medical diagnosis, clearly," Simon volunteered. "Could be any number of things."

"Yes, but Alicia Turner has been nothing short of painstakingly specific thus far, so what might we deduce about Dr. Willows?"

"Not a real doctor," said John.

"Or maybe a real liar," Mal suggested.

Sherlock nodded. "We'll need horses."

"That's my bailiwick," Mal offered.

"Thank you, Captain. John, you and Dr. Tam examine the body; hopefully they've managed to keep it cold as you requested-"

John frowned. "And what will you be doing?"

"Interviewing James McCarthy, of course. Even if he didn't commit the murder, he may have clues as to who did. Meet back at the ship when we're finished," Sherlock concluded, and he began walking away towards the jail.

John took a step to follow him, and then called over his shoulder to Simon. "I'll catch up with you."

John put a hand on Sherlock's elbow to stop him. Sherlock turned to look at him, and read him instantly.

"I'm only going eighty yards away from you. To a police station," Sherlock said, patronizing.

"Fine," John said, releasing Sherlock's arm. But it was all over his face; he had never liked the idea of leaving Sherlock to investigate on his own, but in the last six months he had made it a point to stay closer than before.

Sherlock frowned. "You'll have to trust me to take care of myself eventually."

John huffed out a reluctant laugh. "You're right," he conceded. "No, you're absolutely right."

x-x-x

John and Simon hiked back up the hill to Serenity to find four horses grazing inside a makeshift paddock outside the ship-a golden palomino mare, two bay geldings, and a dappled grey mare who looked like she'd been through the war herself. Zoe and Mal nodded hello, and Sherlock stood a few feet away from the enclosure, looking as though he were trying to deduce the horses' life stories.

"Guess which one's for you," Zoe asked John, smiling.

John grinned. "Is her name Butterscotch?"

"Penelope, actually," Mal answered, coming up behind Zoe. "Still some light left. Thought maybe we could ride up the ridge, see what we can see," he said to John.

John nodded.

"You comin', Doc?" Mal asked Simon.

Simon frowned. "Uh. Horses and I don't exactly get along," he excused, eying the animals warily.

Mal smiled at John a bit, and John tried to hide his grin.

"That's okay. Thanks again for the consult on the body," John offered.

Simon nodded, but his eyes stayed on the horses. "Of course. If you'll excuse me." He didn't wait for a response but rather began making his way back towards the cargo ramp.

"Sherlock know how to ride?" Zoe asked.

John was astounded to find that he didn't know. "Maybe? He could be rubbish at it. Or he could be a champion steeplechaser."

"How 'bout you come with us, Zoe?" Mal asked, his concern showing.

"Yes, sir," Zoe answered, nodding her agreement.

After watching Sherlock saddle up the grey mare, John saw that Sherlock certainly knew what he was doing as far as tack. Watching him ride, however, revealed that he was probably used to extremely well-trained and obedient thoroughbreds and not cranky old mares who had ideas of their own.

"Something's wrong with my horse," Sherlock complained as the mare chewed at her bit and snorted.

John and Mal, riding ahead side by side, shared a knowing look.

Zoe braved explaining. "You're being too bossy with her. She doesn't like it."

"'Bossy'?" Sherlock repeated. "Isn't that the function of the _rider_? To _lead_ the creature?"

"Just ease up on the reins and let her do her own thing before she runs you under a tree branch," Zoe advised.

Sherlock looked aghast, but loosened the reins.

"So, what did James McCarthy have to say for himself?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's an idiot."

John frowned.

Sherlock sighed and continued. "He had been away for three days and just returned earlier than expected, on the day of the murder. He saw his father disappearing into the woods along the path to the lake, but his father did not see him. James took his gun and followed, intending, according to him, to check on a rabbit warren near the lake. About a hundred yards from the lake he heard his father holler 'cooee', a signal long-used between father and son to call for each other."

Mal looked back a moment at Sherlock, but Sherlock had been distracted by the mare reaching back to snap at his leg.

"However, when he arrived at the lake, his father seemed astonished to see him. They argued heatedly-he wouldn't tell me about what-and then James stalked off in a huff. He hadn't gotten far when he heard his father cry out as though in pain. He ran back to the lake and found his father on the ground, bleeding from the head. Charles McCarthy managed to say one clear word to his son and then died. James then ran back to the Roman's cottage to get help."

"What was the word?" John asked.

"'A rat'. Obviously not an actual rodent, but more likely someone who betrayed him."

Zoe narrowed her eyes. "And you still think the son is innocent?"

"Yes. He's an idiot, but not so stupid that he couldn't have come up with a better lie," Sherlock answered. "Am I right in suspecting that the blow to the head could have been caused by something other than the butt of a gun, John?"

"Well. Dr. Tam and I agreed, the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow; the ill-defined edges of it, however, make it hard to determine what caused it. Could've been the gun, could've been a stone-any solid blunt object, actually," John answered as they came nearer to the top of the ridge.

"Well, there you have it."

"I wouldn't call that definitive," Zoe argued, but John looked back at Sherlock to listen because he knew the tone in Sherlock's voice.

"Left parietal and occipital bones, signifying what, John?"

"Most likely he was struck from behind."

"And, given the injuries sustained and the supposition that the assailant was behind the victim, would you say the murderer to be left- or right-handed?" Sherlock asked.

"Left-handed, probably."

Sherlock smiled, smug. "James McCarthy is right-handed."

"Hang on," Mal interrupted, "pretty sure I can kill a man with either hand."

John lifted an eyebrow in agreement.

"Yes, Captain, but we're talking about a nineteen-year-old man with no military experience. By all accounts, he's never even been in a proper fist fight."

Zoe nodded. "Okay. You've got a point. And what about his father being surprised to see him? If James is telling the truth, then who was the father meetin' at the lake?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling. "Who indeed?"

Mal huffed. "Well, somebody else from Shadow, obviously."

Sherlock pulled up on the reins. Zoe did as well, and Mal and John slowed and turned to look when they realized Sherlock had stopped.

"What makes you say that, Captain?" Sherlock asked.

Mal looked around at the three of them watching him with intent faces. "Because . . . 'cooee.'"

"The call between James McCarthy and his father?" John said.

"Yeah, but, it's not just something between them. It's a Shadow thing. You want someone to come, you holler 'cooee' at them. That's how my ma used to call us in to come eat. I don't know why it's 'cooee'; it just is," Mal explained.

A smile spread across Sherlock's face. "How interesting."

The four of them continued on, lining up at the top of the ridge to look down over the Boscombe Valley. Below sprawled the McCarthy estate, clearly the best, most fertile land in the valley. The larger parcel boasted a grand house, stables, a barn, and fields of crops; a creek ran through it, feeding into the lake near the center, past which lay the smaller farm that the Turners lived on.

"Hmm. No fence between the properties," John commented.

Sherlock remained silent.

"Isn't Mr. Turner from Shadow as well?" John asked.

"Very good, John. Knew you'd get it," Sherlock said. "Eventually."

John rolled his eyes.

"I'm going up further; see if I can get a view of the southern gate," Sherlock said, and he maneuvered his ornery mare to go a bit farther along the ridge.

John looked after him with concern, and Zoe noticed.

"How much trouble can he get up to on his own?" she reasoned.

He looked at her from under his furrowed brow. "At least as much as Mal. More."

"Hey," Mal protested, but they ignored him.

"I'll just keep him company, then," Zoe replied, urging the bay up the path after Sherlock.

Mal and John sat quietly on horseback a few moments, watching as the sun began its dip below the horizon.

"Sounds like a handful," Mal ventured.

John smiled. "I'm never bored."

Another minute passed. The horses lowered their heads to graze, and Mal leaned forward, resting his forearms over the horn of the saddle. John sensed Mal's desire to talk and kept his eyes forward.

"Still confounded?" Mal finally said.

"A bit less," John admitted. "But it doesn't mean it'll be easy. Nothing's easy with us."

Mal hummed noncommittally.

John debated. Decided to give Mal the short version. "I thought he was dead. For three years, I mourned him. And now he's back, and... I don't care how messy it all is. I don't want to waste any more time."

Mal nodded slightly. "_Zhen ziang_."

John wondered whether to continue, whether to change the subject. They were on Hera, after all, and though Serenity Valley was hundreds of miles from Ross, memories of that final, horrible battle had to be in Mal's thoughts. But, ultimately, there was nothing to say. Relationships, war-no one could tell you anything that mattered. Everything worth learning was learned the hard way.

Zoe came riding back towards them, Sherlock behind her, and John noted her biting back giggles. He gave her a questioning glance, but she just closed her eyes and shook her head as though she couldn't risk talking, and she kept riding past them all, back towards the ship.

John looked more closely at Sherlock. Stern frown on his face, dirt all over his pants, and leaves in his hair. The mare, on the other hand, looked awfully pleased with herself.

It seemed Sherlock had learned who was boss the hard way.

_x-x-x_

_zhen ziang = truth, real facts_

_Thank you to i-ship-an-armada, wiggleofjudas, and KitKate for continued awesome betaness, and an extra thank you to Armada for the idea of the cranky grey mare; I adore her. The mare. Well, I adore Armada, too. Love all around, then._


	8. Chapter 8

It was dusk already as they approached the ship on their path down from the ridge, and the first thing that hit them was the glorious smell-the smoky mesquite and hickory, the unmistakable scent of beef over flame.

By the time they settled the horses, Mal's mouth was watering.

Wash waved from where he was tending the meat. "This town is full of _ranchers_!" he hollered, grinning.

Zoe's face lit up as she walked over to him, her hips swinging. "Did you get me _steak_? Nice, big, juicy steak?" she asked.

"Anything for my warrior-woman," Wash answered huskily, and she slid a hand into his unruly hair and kissed him soundly.

John raised his eyebrows and coughed into his fist, turning back to the horses, and Mal smiled.

Sherlock seemed to have recovered from his earlier embarrassment with the mare, and simply watched as Kaylee, Inara, and River flitted around each other as they walked down the cargo ramp towards the fire.

"Seems the birds have traded feathers," he remarked.

Mal looked up and blinked at what he saw. What at first glance he had assumed was Kaylee was actually River, wearing a pink shirt and olive green coveralls, her hair in two buns atop her head. But her gait, the way she held her head and slipped her hands into her pockets was Kaylee all over.

Kaylee, on the other hand, smiled like herself, but walked more carefully, as the gown she wore fit closely against her figure. The sleeveless sheath with a mandarin collar covered her in royal blue silk from neck to toes, the silver embroidery and piping catching light from the fire. Her hair had been twisted into an elegant coiled bun, beaded hair sticks holding it in place. Mal smiled up at her and was reminded of how happy she had been at the ball on Persephone not that long ago. And this outfit certainly seemed to be having an effect on the young doctor; Mal watched as Simon walked up to Kaylee, all agog, and though it didn't seem possible, her smile widened.

And then he saw Inara, walking down the ramp behind the others. She wore a grey, crocheted sweater, the openwork design letting the dark blue of her dress peek through, the skirt of which flared out to reach her knees, leading his eye to the incongruous black boots on her feet. Her hair hung naturally in black waves down her back, and she wore no make-up. She smiled at him, and his heart stopped.

She came over to the three of them, and he found he couldn't speak.

She seemed to sense this, and turned to face John and Sherlock.

"Playing dress-up?" John asked.

She smiled. "It's rare that we get time to play at all, so we're taking advantage," she answered. "Jayne's brought his guitar," she began, and turned her eyes to Sherlock. "We were hoping maybe you'd play, too."

Sherlock looked to John and then tilted his head. "Only if John promises not to sing."

John punched him gently in the arm. "Hey!"

"Ouch," Sherlock whined, rubbing his bicep.

"Oh, sorry! Still sore from your little tumble?" John teased.

Sherlock ignored John completely and looked to Inara instead. "Yes, all right," he replied. He began walking off towards the ship, barely turning his head to command, "Come on, John."

John followed him.

Mal grinned after them. "They're turning into an old married couple," he commented.

Inara smiled up at him. "I think they already were."

Mal looked at Inara and thought about what John had said. _Nothing's easy. Don't waste time._

He waved a finger at her. "You look. Nice. This way."

"Oh. Thank you," she answered, fingering the bottom edge of the sweater. "River has lovely things."

"It's the boots that really do it for me," Mal added, and she laughed easily.

"Hungry?" she asked, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Starved," he answered, meeting her gaze. He bent an elbow towards her and she slipped her arm around his, smiling as he led them to the fire.

After dinner, the wine continued flowing as Jayne and Sherlock played. John danced with anyone who came within three feet of him. He twirled Kaylee off into Simon's arms quite deliberately and then reached out for Zoe's hand.

"I've given up on the snog; dance instead?" he asked, grinning, and she stood up.

"All right," she said, and took his hand, and he spun her around, attempting a two-step. She laughed as the wine had clearly turned him from an average dancer into a slightly terrible one. After a few minutes, Wash tapped him on the shoulder.

"May I cut in?" he asked.

John released Zoe, a bit of concern showing on his features. "Of course, of course," he said.

"Thank you," Wash said, putting out his arms towards John.

"Oh," John blurted, and promptly took Wash's offered hand.

Mal chuckled as Wash took the lead and the two men danced somewhat badly in a wide circle. He looked over to Inara, who sat next to him, and watched the firelight play over her features. She caught him looking, but, for once, he didn't turn away, letting his eyes meet hers for longer than he could normally bear.

Zoe laughed so loudly on the other side of them that he nearly feared she was laughing at him, but he looked up to see Wash in the middle of dipping John over his knee as the song ended.

"Nicely dipped," John complimented him as Wash lifted him to standing again.

"I'm very suave," Wash answered. John dropped a curtsey and Zoe burst out laughing again.

"I think your wife's had one too many," Mal shouted over to Wash, and Zoe waved a hand at his face dismissively.

As he sat comfortably next to Inara, feeling the warmth of her so near, Mal wondered at the collection of people he'd managed to gather around him. Sherlock held his violin loosely at his side and rolled his eyes as John grinned at him. Jayne set down the guitar gently against the back of his chair, lifting his arms in a big stretch. River crept up behind him and took the instrument into her hands. Zoe and Wash were drifting back onto the ship, arm in arm, heads bent together. Kaylee sat with Simon, half-leaning into his arms and smiling.

He glanced back over to Jayne to find the incongruent tableau of him guiding River's fingers gently over the strings of the guitar, though his face betrayed the same wariness Jayne usually felt towards the girl.

"How about a nightcap, Cap'n?" Kaylee asked, catching Mal's attention. "We know you're hidin' the good stuff."

Mal was comfortably buzzed and felt no need to waste his best liquor. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he answered.

Inara glanced at him, and then back to Kaylee. "I know where he hides it," Inara confessed.

"That's a gorram lie," Mal accused, pointing at her crookedly.

"It's on the third shelf of the-" she began, but Mal's hand rushed to still her lips.

"Shh! Don't be tellin' my secrets, woman!"

Mal made the mistake of lowering his hand and Inara ducked around him, hopping up from her seat. She whispered to Kaylee, "I'll go get it!"

She was halfway to the ramp before Mal hollered, "Hey! Get back here. That's an order!"

Inara looked over her shoulder at him and smirked, and continued hurrying up the ramp.

Kaylee turned and raised both eyebrows at him, pointing her chin to indicate that he should follow her.

"Yeah, okay," Mal mumbled, and he strode along after her in a very captain-like fashion.

He found her stealing away from his quarters, clutching the bottle of scotch by the neck in one hand.

"Hey!" he hollered after her, and she scampered along the catwalk playfully, towards her shuttle. He ran after her, hustling to catch up before she could escape him. Those boots seemed to be good for running.

She had reached the shuttle door and entered the code to open it, but before she could step inside, Mal caught her, crowding her against the nearby wall.

"And just what do you think you're doing with that?" Mal asked.

She hid the bottle behind her back. "With what?" she asked, her face all innocence and big, round eyes.

"Oh, no. I caught you red-handed," he replied, shaking his head at her.

She smiled.

"Give it here," he ordered, but he didn't put out his hand and he didn't step away.

She narrowed her eyes. "No."

"_No?_"

"Uh-uh. Negative, Captain," she teased with a feigned expression of seriousness.

Mal's eyes darkened. "Give."

"No," she said quietly, her eyes twinkling.

He felt her challenge, accepted it, and moved his hand swiftly to capture the bottle, but she had anticipated him. She raised the bottle up high above her head.

"No," she repeated, laughing now.

"Give," he said, reaching up for it-and, in doing so, his body pressed towards hers. The feel of her against him stilled his movements. His gaze fell from the the bottle to her eyes, deep and dark, and her smile slackened.

"No," she murmured, her eyes half-closed and focused on his mouth.

They moved toward each other, wave to wave, and their lips met in a crash. He made an urgent sound, and she whimpered into his mouth, and he opened, sent his tongue out to meet hers.

HIs arms came around her almost of their own volition, clinging to her as his body flooded with sensation. Their breath became rough, her free hand slid to the back of his head, and he pulled her closer to him.

Their kiss deepened, her lips warm and eager against his own. He wanted to explore every part of her, his tongue skirting along the edges of her teeth, one hand traveling up to her hair and anchoring there, the other moving downward, landing at the base of her spine.

He had thought about touching her, kissing her for so long, it was almost too much to believe it was actually happening. His body adjusted more quickly than his mind, and before he was aware of it, they were moving backward, into the shuttle itself.

Inara set the bottle down on a side table without leaving his arms, and then her hands were running over his chest. His skin sang back in response, and his own hands slipped to the hem of her sweater and tugged. She raised her arms so he could pull it off of her, barely pausing their kisses as he did. He dropped it and brought his hands to the newly exposed skin of her back, her arms, fingers daring to skim along the neckline of her dress.

Her own fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, and she began to unfasten them, and somehow that action, the implication of it, broke through the fog in his brain. He looked around himself, the shuttle, saw her opulently decorated bed only steps away.

"'nara," he said softly, and his hands came to rest at her waist.

She had been about to undo the third button, but her hands stilled. "Yes?" she asked softly, not meeting his gaze.

When he didn't answer, she looked up. He didn't know what was showing on his own face, but it must have been pretty bad, because her eyes were glinting with fear.

"I'm just saying . . ." he trailed off.

"What is it?" she asked.

Hell, he didn't even know what, exactly. He looked around the room, eyes darting to the bed, and then looked back at her.

She glanced at the bed herself and when she looked back up at him, her eyes were cold.

"Oh. Is it that you don't want to have sex? Or you don't want to have sex _here_?" she asked darkly, and she leaned back from him, her hands retreating from him entirely as she crossed her arms.

He frowned. That wasn't what he meant. Was it?

She scrunched up her face at him, and her voice came loud and hoarse. "I mean, is there anywhere on this gorram ship where we could be together without you feeling ashamed and conflicted about it?" Her voice broke over the words. "Anywhere in the whole 'verse?" she asked, and she blinked hard at the tears forming in her eyes.

"It's not that," Mal tried. "It's not you."

That only seemed to frustrate her more. "No, it's _you_." She grabbed the bottle of scotch and shoved it into his hands. "Here. Take this and go. Come back when you've resolved all your _bei miu, you xiao_ hangups."

He set his jaw and glared at her.

"Or don't," she added, feigning indifference, and she stepped away, turning her back to him.

Unable to think of a single thing to say to improve the situation, but about twenty things that would make it worse, Mal walked out of the shuttle, the bottle gripped tightly in his hand.

x-x-x

John, hungry again after all the dancing, wandered up toward the galley, hoping to scrounge up something to satisfy his sweet tooth. He was surprised to come across Mal, thrown across the loveseat in the observation room, his legs dangling over the edge of it. John noted the less-than-full bottle on the floor next to him as well.

"All right?" John asked.

"Shiny," Mal answered, but his face was hard.

"Okay," John said, giving a cautious smile.

"Just dandy," Mal continued, his voice rougher and slower than usual.

John cocked his head. "What's wrong?"

Mal balked and shifted on the cushions, sitting up straighter. "What's _wrong_? Hell, it'd be faster to tell ya what's _right_."

Well, this was getting nowhere, but John was willing to show some patience with his friend. He had never encountered a drunk Mal Reynolds before, though, and found himself aware of Mal's gun still strapped to his side, the fact that though his speech was slower, his movements were not.

"Okay," John said. "So what's right?"

Mal stood up to his full height and fixed John with a stare. "Nothing."

"You're right. That was faster," John replied.

"Everything's gone wrong since you and your boyfriend stepped on my ship," Mal leveled at him.

It was laughably untrue, but Mal's expression was dead serious.

"How d'you reckon?" John asked, his brows pulling together.

"Some things are better left unsaid," Mal responded. "Left undone."

John had no earthly idea what Mal was referring to, but his tone, his posture was defiance and a challenge. He was a man looking for a fight.

"Well, if that's how you see it, maybe it's best if we part ways," John suggested.

Mal's eyes widened a little at the suggestion, but he didn't choose to backpedal. "Maybe it is," he said.

"Fine," John said calmly.

"Fine," Mal answered in the same tone, nodding once.

John dipped his chin in return, and then stepped away, making his way back downstairs to collect Sherlock and their things, wondering what the hell had just happened.

x-x-x

_Notes: _

_bei miu = absurd, preposterous_  
_you xiao = immature/juvenile _

_Continued love to Armada, Jude, Kate, and Snog for speedy and thorough beta-ing. Thank you again for all the comments and love; they mean more to me than you know, dear readers._


	9. Chapter 9

_Ok, folks, fair warning, this chapter contains borderline explicit sex. I get anxious about ffnet policies, so I revised this a bit to be more at the "Mature" level; if you want the "Explicit" version, hop over to AO3. (Strangely, it's not as different as you might expect; a few more details, a few additional terms, that's all.)  
_

x-x-x

The waxing moon lit their path as they walked away from Serenity. John skirted around the dying fire and headed for the treeline. Sherlock trudged behind him, carrying his large duffel and the violin case.

"Leaving will only make things worse," Sherlock said to John's back.

"Eh. Maybe I want to make things worse," he joked, though his heart wasn't in it.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock demanded.

"Somewhere more . . . private," John answered. Sherlock remained silent, and John allowed himself a moment of pride for getting the man to pause his complaining. He found a spot to his liking about fifty feet into the woods-close enough to the ship to be safe, but beyond a cluster of trees so that they could not be easily seen.

"Do you want a fire?" John asked, setting his bags against the base of a massive sequoia. He removed his jacket and tucked it gently on top of the pile.

"It's not likely to get cold tonight."

John grinned at him, and with a twinkle in his eyes said, "Nope." Sherlock startled and John's smile widened. The flirting threw him, and it thrilled John to see the controlled facade waver and crack. He reached into his bag and pulled out two big woolen blankets, dark grey and rough against his hands, and straightened one out upon the ground.

"Nicked these off Serenity."

Sherlock put his own bags down and then took off his great coat and laid it next to John's jacket. "Manage to nick any dessert?" he asked, coming to sit on the blanket next to John.

John produced a small glass jar from where it had been tucked inside his waistcoat, and offered it to Sherlock, who took it and unscrewed the lid. It looked like mud, but the smell was intoxicating.

"_John_."

"Don't say I never get you nice things," John said. Sherlock smiled up at him and then looked down at the jar again. It had warmed from its proximity to John's body, and when he dipped a long index finger into it, John was reminded suddenly of finger painting as a child, the tactile sensation of warm, wet paint on his hands as he and Harry made an absolute mess in the back yard.

All thoughts of childhood fled, though, as Sherlock's finger came up covered in an ooze of chocolate hazelnut spread, which Sherlock then popped into his mouth. He actually closed his eyes as he swallowed.

John sat still before him, body warming all over at the sight of Sherlock giving in to hedonistic pleasure, at the sound of him sucking his own finger clean.

"I could just watch you eat that and die happy," he said, his voice lowering. Sherlock met his eyes and smiled around his finger, pulling it out slowly through his glistening lips.

Sherlock responded by dipping two fingers into the jar and bringing them up to John's face, hovering at his lips.

"You needn't deny yourself, John," he said, touching the chocolate to John's lips. John parted the slightest bit, his eyes locked on Sherlock's like a dare. Sherlock pressed gently, smearing the smooth, slightly oily dessert against John's lips, onto his teeth.

John opened his mouth. Sherlock's fingers curled inside, and John scraped them clean with the edges of his teeth. His tongue wound around Sherlock's fingers, and he sealed his lips and swallowed, Sherlock's fingers filling his mouth.

Sherlock's breath quickened, and his body sank towards John. He moved his lips to John's ear, his fingers still in John's mouth as John's tongue licked them in lazy circles.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his chest rising and falling against John's. His fingers withdrew to John's cheek to let him answer.

"The truth?" John asked, his own breath ragged.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered.

"I want . . . " He hesitated. Really, it was a big step, and Sherlock was supposedly a novice at all this.

Sherlock's other hand came around to the front of John's trousers, pressing against John's already hardening length, and growled into John's ear.

"Tell me," he ordered.

John groaned, tilting his hips to press himself into Sherlock's hand, which squeezed around him.

"_Now_."

_Fuck it_. He'd probably deduced it already anyway.

"I want to be inside you," John confessed.

Sherlock's hand stroked firmly against him, and John whimpered.

"No, it's more than that, John. What do you _want_?" Sherlock insisted, his hand slipping down to cup him through the layers of fabric.

John swallowed. He brought his hands to Sherlock's face, lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock's silver blue eyes. His voice was deep and clear. "I want you to let me fuck you, here, your back on the ground, looking up at the trees and the stars while I come inside you."

John remained perfectly still.

Sherlock's hand retreated from John's crotch and came up to John's other cheek.

"Yes," Sherlock said, holding John's face.

John blinked. "Yes?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock repeated in his darkest voice, and his hands let John go, moving down to his own belt and starting to unbuckle it.

John huffed out the breath he had been holding and he leaned forward, lips seeking Sherlock's. He planted a kiss on his soft, crazy hair, pressed another against his temple, scraped his teeth along an earlobe.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock dismissed, giving John a quick kiss on the lips. "Get undressed," he said, and he returned his full attention to ridding himself of his clothing as quickly as possible.

"Yes, sir," John mumbled, his fingers flying at the buttons on his shirt.

Sherlock giggled, and soon both of them had divested themselves of shoes and clothes.

They stood, naked, facing each other. Sherlock pressed a palm against his own throat, and John watched with hungry eyes as Sherlock ran his hand his hand along his chest, over the gentle curve of his belly, and down to grasp his erection.

John watched as Sherlock teased himself, essentially displaying himself for his lover.

_Lover. Christ_, John thought. It still didn't feel real, despite the evidence presented.

Sherlock took a step forward, and John felt Sherlock's other hand come to grip him, fingers firm and dry. Their height difference became obvious, as there was no comfortable way to align themselves while standing, but Sherlock simply continued working them both, elegant fingers dancing over sensitive skin. John moved his own hands around to Sherlock's back, sliding them firmly down along the satisfyingly plump contours of his arse. John grinned at the feel of Sherlock's flesh filling his hands, the give beneath his fingers. He raked his nails over the soft skin, over and over until he felt the warm little welts beneath his fingertips, until Sherlock was whimpering against John's neck.

"Lie down," John said. Sherlock released him to comply, and John went to his duffel, pulling out a small tube and a soft cloth and dropping them near Sherlock's hip. Sherlock bent one leg and dropped it loosely to the side, lazily touching himself with just the tips of his fingers, and John was mesmerized.

"Again. Could just watch you do that all night," John said.

"Another time," Sherlock answered, reaching up to John with his other hand. "I believe we have other plans for tonight."

John half-smiled at that, and took Sherlock's hand, lowering himself alongside Sherlock, who immediately pulled John on top of him instead.

John lined their bodies up and supported himself on his hands. At the feel of Sherlock's fingers caressing him, John couldn't help pushing gently into Sherlock's hands.

"You've done this before," John concluded.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "Does that bother you?"

"Of course," John said immediately, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back.

A thought occurred to John and his features clouded. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I've had anal intercourse. Once."

John stilled. "And . . . how was it? For you, I mean?" he clarified, grimacing at his wording.

Sherlock squinted as though trying to think of a precise answer. "Tolerable."

John's eyes widened. "Well, that's not-" He stopped to rephrase. "We can do better than that," he managed.

"Well, yes, I expect so," Sherlock answered primly, and John smiled, leaning down and kissing him. Sherlock responded eagerly, his lips rushing to meet him, his tongue pushing into John's mouth. John's smile subsided, his affection escalating into an intense rush of desire again as he resumed moving his hips in time with their kisses.

"If there's anything," John began between kisses, "you don't want to do, if you want to stop for any reason-" He bent down for another kiss. "Say 'stop'."

Sherlock smirked. "How imaginative."

John frowned at him.

"I never do anything I don't want to do, John," he answered back. His expression softened. "But I can't imagine anything I wouldn't want done to me, if you're the one doing it."

The emotion Sherlock had allowed to enter his eyes, the sincerity in his voice-the rarity of it!-increased the sense of the surreal that surrounded them.

"Good," John said, though that hardly expressed the entirety of his response. "That's good," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion.

John reached down to kiss Sherlock again, slow kisses filled with heat and clear intent. He adjusted his weight, sliding himself along Sherlock's body until he could kneel between his legs. His hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips, and then his mouth slipped over Sherlock's length, intending to overwhelm him with sensation. Sherlock quivered and sighed in response, and one of his hands slid along John's scalp.

"_John_." Sherlock moaned loudly

"Relax," John said against his belly. "I'll give you what you want," he murmured, dropping a kiss near his navel.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, deliberately, and John reached for the tube he'd placed on the blanket earlier. Sherlock tensed slightly as he felt the gentle pressure of John's finger.

"It's all right," John whispered. "Whatever you want."

As John felt Sherlock relax, he continued until he was pressing in a slow, predictable rhythm.

Sherlock's groan rumbled in his throat, and he canted his hips to meet John's little movements.

"More."

John complied, Sherlock relaxed into the movement. Pliant. Ready.

John looked up then, seeking his lover's eyes, and Sherlock returned his gaze, his eyes half-closed, pupils wide.

"Are you-"

"Yes," Sherlock panted.

John reared up to fetch the tube again, preparing himself. He moved to settle between Sherlock's sprawled legs.

"Up, love," he said gently, tapping behind Sherlock's knees, and Sherlock obeyed readily, lifting his thighs up along John's sides as John planted one hand near Sherlock's shoulder. He stared down into Sherlock's face, the fluttering eyelids, the slack lips. He pressed himself inside.

The sensation threatened to overwhelm him immediately as Sherlock sucked in his breath sharply. John quickly moved his hand up to the other side of Sherlock to support himself.

He dropped his chin and took a deep breath.

"All right?" he asked, grimacing.

Sherlock seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. He dropped his heels against the small of John's back, and the tension in his thighs ebbed away. John felt the grip around him loosen the slightest bit.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his voice deep and dark. "Now, _move_."

John still watched Sherlock's face intently. Though he wanted to maintain a slow pace, his mind felt fuzzy from the physical sensations assailing him. Each slide drew sounds from Sherlock that John had never heard him make before. The noises thrilled him, made him want to make it last as long as he could, that he might hear Sherlock's pleasure, see the desire in his eyes, his flushed cheeks.

"So gorgeous," John muttered. "So perfect."

Sherlock deliberately tightened around him, and John dropped his head on Sherlock's chest and growled.

Sherlock ran his hands up John's forearms, over his shoulders, and John looked up to see Sherlock's eyes focused on his. His fingers migrated over John's chest, coming to tease and pull at each nipple, and John rewarded him with another deep, slow push. Sherlock pressed his heels into John's arse and arched his back, and John shuddered.

"Touch yourself," John whispered. He leaned forward for a kiss. "I want to see you."

John straightened his arms and watched as Sherlock's hand travel down his body. John's eyes returned to Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed to nod once, and then deliberately look away. Look up.

At the trees.

At the stars.

John looked down, at the grey blanket rough beneath his hands and knees, at Sherlock's slender fingers. Something clicked inside John, asking him to give up entirely on the idea of restraint, and he surrendered.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, and John increased his pace, the pleasure building the tension in his own body.

"More," Sherlock urged, digging his heels in and arching to meet him. "You said '_fuck_'," Sherlock reminded him, and hearing the word come from Sherlock's lips, in his roughened, deep as night voice spurred John on.

Each thrust came deep and fast now, with John grunting with effort, with the pain of need. Sherlock cried out into the night air as their bodies met noisily, inelegantly, and John felt himself so close, so close.

"Now," John managed to gasp seconds before his entire body tensed. He felt Sherlock's muscles go rigid as well, heard him groan, and at the feel of the orgasm rippling through Sherlock, he felt his own crushing wave of pleasure sweep through him.

He dropped his head to Sherlock's chest, butting against his collarbone as the aftershocks worked through him. Sherlock was breathing roughly, and his limbs seemed to give out, legs slipping downwards and arms falling to his sides.

John reached around blindly for the cloth he'd dropped on the blanket earlier. He tidied them both up, Sherlock languid and compliant. John disposed of the cloth and fetched their coats, the second blanket, and his gun.

"Here," he said, bunching up Sherlock's coat like a pillow and tucking it beneath his head. He did the same with his own jacket, set the gun within reach, and then lay down, settling the blanket around them both.

Sherlock migrated into John's arms, resting his head on John's good shoulder.

"So," John said, sliding his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "Tolerable?" he asked, grinning.

Sherlock laughed against his skin. "Brilliant," he said, nuzzling at his chest.

x-x-x

_Notes: Well, hope that eases the pain of the Mal/Inara frustrations in the previous chapter..._  
_Thanks go out again to Armada, Jude, Kate and Snog for input and hand-holding throughout this chapter._  
_A little heads up, also: I intend to continue posting a chapter a week, but real life is about to get six kinds of hectic. I'll post on my tumblr if the next chapter will be late for any reason; you can also track the #fireflylock tag on tumblr. I seem to be the only human using it._


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank yous to Armada, Jude, Kate, and Snog for being the fastest betas in the West (so to speak), and thank you to all of you, dear readers, for your patience. _

_x-x-x_

The grey light signalling dawn sifted through the trees. John lay with his eyes open.

He felt Sherlock pressed against him, his body layered around Sherlock's like armor-knees pressed against the back of Sherlock's thighs, left arm curled over the other man's side, nose tucked in the hollow between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock slept soundly, soughing out deep breaths, and John rode the rise and fall of his belly with his hand.

Warm. Breathing. Alive.

And now, in his arms. Nestled there on the forest floor, a nymph to delight and test him. John settled his face against the skin of Sherlock's back. There in the stillness and the half-dark, a seed settled in his mind. Germinated. And so he wondered.

How long before Sherlock was taken from him?

How long until Sherlock took himself away?

When Sherlock stirred, turned in John's arms for a kiss, a nuzzle, the thoughts hid again, buried in the dark. John filled Sherlock's ears with a river of gentle sounds, and his words of love were water over rock, falling and falling while Sherlock clung to him.

x-x-x

Once the dawn broke properly, reality came with it, and they were soon dressed and breakfasting on ageless, flavorless protein bars and water from the canteens John had filled the night before.

"He won't actually abandon you here," Sherlock reasoned.

"No," John agreed. "But there's no point in waiting for him to come out and say he's sorry, either."

No. Mal would find some indirect way to apologize, and John would let it go at that.

They packed and left their things tucked away in the woods. When they hiked out to the corral, Sherlock argued for trading horses, but John refused. As they finished saddling them up, John was unsurprised to see Zoe come out from the airlock door and walk towards them, a burlap bag in her hands.

She assessed them, gaze running over them, between them. "Off to the Turner place?" she asked.

"That's right," John answered. "Still have a murder to solve."

Zoe nodded. She handed over the bag to John, indicating with her chin that he should open it. "Just the basics. Food. Water."

John pulled two worn, felt Stetsons.

"Long ride," Zoe explained. "The black one's for Sherlock."

"How symbolic," Sherlock quipped.

Zoe frowned. "It's bigger. For that brain of yours," she retorted. "And for all . . . that." She waved a hand over her own hair.

John noted Sherlock's fantastic array of black curls, thoroughly mussed from sex and sleeping on the ground, and he sniggered.

x-x-x

The ride took nearly two hours, most of which they spent in companionable silence. When Sherlock seemed to disappear into his thoughts, John would ride ahead and lead, the grey mare happy to be left in peace.

The main house came into view as they made their way down the slope to the valley floor. Its deep porch and peaked gables reminded John of the Holmes' estate, of warm days when Sherlock actually seemed happy not to have a case, days spent fiddling with bees and conducting experiments in the barn while John rode and wrote and cooked entirely too much food.

Alicia had seen them coming; as they dismounted and wrapped their reins about the hitching post, she came out front to meet them, her floral print dress and smooth waves of hair attempting to exude order and calm, though John watched her thumb rub against the ring on her finger, over and over.

John removed his hat, and looked over to Sherlock to see if he would do the same. Sherlock's lips pressed together in a thin line. He pulled the hat off reluctantly, his riotous hair springing up for a moment before he ran a hand through to tame it, and John looked down and smiled.

"Morning, gentlemen," Alicia greeted. "I'll take you up now, if you like," she offered, and at their nods, turned back to the house. John hustled up the porch steps to hold the door open for her, and she stepped inside.

Upstairs, a severe-looking older woman sat crocheting a doily in the hallway, an array of medications on the low table beside her. The white streak in her otherwise black hair ran in a straight line away from her forehead, where her hair was gathered into a tight, prim bun. Her starched white apron contrasted with her deeply tan skin, and her brown eyes narrowed up at them.

"This is Susana, my father's nurse," Alicia introduced. She began speaking to Susana quickly in a language that John suspected was native to Shadow. He recognized their own names, Alicia doubtless explaining their purpose here, but the older woman still glared at Sherlock and John suspiciously.

"Now, Dr. Watson, I know you'll understand that we can't upset him," Alicia warned as they paused outside her father's bedroom door. John thought she really ought to have aimed her comment at Sherlock rather than him, but he nodded just the same.

"Of course," John answered, looking pointedly at Sherlock when she turned her back.

Alicia knocked lightly on the door before swinging it open.

They entered into a large bedroom, lit only by the sunshine coming in from the window on the far wall, and though the window was open, the room smelled musty and the earthy, slightly sweet scent of cigar smoke lingered. The large, canopied bed stood to the right, and John could see that the man lying in it was awake, though his eyelids were at half-mast, and the leathery skin of his face was partially hidden by the impressively long grey beard and mustache he sported.

Alicia walked over to the far side of the bed. "Daddy?" she began softly. "These are the detectives I told you about. They're helping James."

"Oh," said Jack Turner in a thready voice. "Bless you, gentlemen. I cannot thank you enough for coming to young James' aid." John and Sherlock walked closer and stopped at the foot of the bed.

"A shame we couldn't meet under better circumstances," Turner added.

John nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing around the room. "Given your condition, we'll not waste your time, Mr. Turner. Have you any idea why James and his father might have been arguing ardently enough to frighten a fourteen-year-old girl?"

"Who, Prudence? That girl's scared of her own shadow," Alicia answered, waving a dismissive hand, but she quieted at the gently chastising look John gave her.

"Oh, Charles and James argued frequently; I highly doubt the Roman girl witnessed anything out of the ordinary. James had several"-The man looked over to his daughter-"bad habits, let's say, that his father disapproved of."

John looked over to Sherlock who seemed to be studying the dust on the floor.

"Gambling?" Sherlock asked. "Drinking? That sort of bad habit?"

"Yes, to both," Turner answered. "I'm afraid Charles indulged him as a child, and James has no sense of moderation, no self-control."

"Daddy," Alicia objected softly.

His eyes turned to her. "Oh, you know it's true, pumpkin," he said gently.

"You seem to be arguing that he could be driven to murder, if the circumstances were dire enough," John pointed out.

"No, no. James would never hurt his father, if only because Charles always bailed him out, and always settled the boy's debts."

John hummed noncommittally. Sherlock stared out the bedroom window, out onto the grounds.

"We'll need to take a look at the scene, near the lake," Sherlock said.

"Yes, of course. I'm only sorry that I cannot accompany you." Turner smiled, but then his features clouded as a coughing fit overtook him. Alicia rushed over to him, helping him to a sitting position, and John walked over as well, sidestepping the boots against the nightstand.

"Anything I can do for you, sir?" John asked, as Susana, the nurse, strode through the door.

Turner recovered enough to answer. "No, thank you, Dr. Watson. I'm afraid we're just in a 'wait and see' situation."

Susana bustled over to the bed, and Alicia and John both retreated as the woman handed Turner a pill and held out a glass of water for him, which he reached for quickly with his left hand, lifting the glass to his lips and drinking eagerly.

Once Turner swallowed, the older woman glared at Sherlock and John accusingly.

John turned his head to avoid her gaze. Sherlock was still looking out the window. He narrowed his eyes and then turned, walking towards the door.

"We'll be off, then. Thank you for your time," John said quickly, jogging after Sherlock out of the room and down the stairs.

He caught up with him outside on the gravel drive, Sherlock making his way behind the house to the lake path.

"Did you see, John?" Sherlock asked, eyes twinkling. John loved seeing him like this-gaze glittering bright beneath his dark, drawn brows, his formidable energy focused on the chase.

"Probably not," John admitted.

Sherlock shook his hands around his head in frustration. "The dust. The dust!"

"Obviously."

Sherlock smirked at his sarcasm. "There were at least three able-bodied people in that room within the last twenty-four hours," he explained, his pace quickening.

John hustled to keep up with him. "Yeah. Alicia. The nurse-"

"Men, John. The size and pattern of the footprints indicate three men, all of whom were able to walk around just fine."

"Well, yes, Turner is clearly faking his symptoms," John replied, proud to have deduced that on his own. But Sherlock had said-

John's smile dropped. "_Three_ men."

"Yes."

His hand shifting near automatically, John unsnapped the strap that secured his gun in its holster, and Sherlock moved to do the same.

In the five minute walk to the lake, John saw nothing suspicious, but his hand remained lightly on the gun at his hip as Sherlock sniffed around the crime scene.

Literally, it seemed.

The great detective was nearly lying in the grass near the marshy shore of the lake with not a care to muddying his clothes. He touched the soil, rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed at it, and then sprang up, eyes glued to the ground as he walked erratically towards the treeline.

"Sherlock," John warned as he watched Sherlock get further away.

"Footprints, John!" he answered over his shoulder, never lifting his eyes.

John followed, eyes scanning the trees around them, glancing at the path behind them.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you can't run off without-"

"Look, John," Sherlock interrupted, as single-minded as he always was on the hunt. He pointed to the ground. John glanced briefly at the impressions in the clay-like soil.

"Square-toed boots, fairly distinctive," Sherlock explained, a smile pulling at his lips.

"Don't tell me. They're equal to the prints in Turner's room," John supplied.

The smile bloomed properly. "Yes, very good, John; and I'll wager the boots at the side of Turner's bed will match these prints perfectly. But look here," Sherlock said, pointing to the base of the tree near him.

The stub of a cigar. Little piles of ash.

"Bloody hell," John swore, and turned away, keep his eyes on everything other than the look of vindication that was doubtless plastered on Sherlock's face. He had known the day would come when he would regret mocking Sherlock's monograph on two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash, and it seemed that day had arrived.

"Did you not smell-"

"Yes, yes. Cigar smoke, I smelled it," John allowed, still keeping his eyes up and away.

"But did you detect its subtleties, the scent of wet hay, the espresso notes, a touch of eucalyptus-"

"I smelled cigar smoke," John said plainly.

"That smell coupled with this ash-it has to be a Javan, Spanish origin, definitely imported. Wouldn't be hard to trace local customers."

"Yes, okay; brilliant, as usual," John said, shaking his head in defeat.

"I'm not finished," Sherlock answered. John did look at him then, and Sherlock indicated a clump of grass several feet to his left. John stepped closer to the spot and then glanced down.

"A rock?" John asked, knitting his brows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You said yourself that the murder weapon could be almost any blunt object. _Observe_. What do you _see_?"

John hunkered down to look properly at the thing. It was certainly the right shape and size to create the wound he had seen when examining McCarthy's body, and a dark smudge across the broad side of it could possibly be dried blood, he supposed. He was about to tell Sherlock so when he heard it.

A rushing noise through the grass. Sherlock's small, irritated sigh.

John knew before he saw, his body rising fluidly to stand, eyes snapping to Sherlock, to the man behind Sherlock holding a pistol to the side of his head. John's hand closed around the grip of his gun, but then he felt the cold circle of a muzzle pressed against his own scalp.

A voice behind him tutted. "'Fraid not, Dr. Watson."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks, as always, to my betas, who hold my hand, tell it to me straight, lift me up, and make me better._

x-x-x

John winced as he heard the snick of the gun at the base of his skull being cocked.

"Hello, Susana," he said.

"Top o' the mornin', doc," she answered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "I _knew _it."

"Shame that knowledge didn't help you save your hide," she replied. Her free hand came around to remove the gun from John's holster. The man relieved Sherlock of his weapon as well.

Susana slid her pistol down to John's back and pushed. "Go on. Stand next to the 'genius' over there."

John complied, and the lanky man adjusted his stance, gripping a pistol in each hand now as he covered both of them as they stood side by side, facing Susana within the shady ring of trees.

Susana engaged the safety on John's gun and tucked it into her waistband. Stripped of her apron, of her pretence, John could see she was compact and strong and definitely acclimatized to violence. She held her gun steadily at the both of them.

"Hands up, gentlemen."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John remained stoic as they complied. Ambushed. Disarmed. Things really were not going to plan.

Susana squatted and picked up the rock John had been examining.

"Thanks," she said, looking up to Sherlock. "Been lookin' for this."

She stood and, in one smooth movement, pitched it far into the center of the lake.

"It won't matter," Sherlock declared. "We have more than enough evidence to convict Turner."

"Don't recall givin' you permission to speak," Susana said. She waved the gun towards a path along the edge of the lake, heading uphill to the east. "March."

John pursed his lips, glanced at Sherlock, whose face showed only mild irritation. Right. Not time to panic just yet.

He started moving along the path, Sherlock at his side.

Their captors remained silent as they made their way up the incline towards an escarpment along the border of the lake, about twenty feet above the water. John peeked out from under the brim of his hat to look at Sherlock, looking for some sign that the detective had a plan, but Sherlock gave no signal. As they came to the apex, Susana and Lanky positioned them with their backs to the lake, only a few feet from the edge of the cliff.

_Of course_, though John._ Couldn't just shoot us. Had to be a fall._ He looked over to Sherlock again, whose crystal blue eyes focused on some point among the trees behind their captors.

In that moment, Jack Turner appeared from the eastern woods astride a chestnut stallion, his gait as calm and smooth as his rider's demeanor.

"Ah. How dramatic," Sherlock said to Turner, unimpressed.

Susana's blow to the side of his head knocked Sherlock sideways into John, who braced against him to prevent his fall. The black Stetson fell from his head, rolling to the ground beside John's feet. Sherlock had bent over from the momentum of the blow, but straightened himself, glaring at Susana defiantly. Blood trickled over his temple, down along the skin in front of his ear.

John remained very still.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. Not feeling so clever now, are ya?" Turner said. He was strong and wiry, and certainly not ill, and he dismounted smoothly. He took two steps forward. Pulled out a cigar and cut the end off with a pocketknife. Lit it. Took a leisurely puff, staring out at the hazy morning sky.

John evaluated their options. Fight. Run. Jump. None of them were good.

Turner finally looked at them. "Didn't expect the yokels to get the drop on ya." He pointed the cigar at Sherlock. "Did ya?"

"Oh. Am I allowed to speak now?" Sherlock asked.

Turner waved his hand expansively. "Be my guest."

"Well, let's see," Sherlock began, looking upward as though he were trying to remember the details. "Considering everything I have got right, an amateurish ambush is hardly a concern. You, Susana, and Dr. Willows here-"

John glanced at Lanky, who startled.

"-have been desperately trying to cover up the fact that you did indeed lie in wait and murder Charles McCarthy in cold blood, nearly under the nose of his own son, I might add."

"And what does that tell ya?" Turner asked, eyes dark and gaze even.

Sherlock met his eyes with icy scrutiny. "That you're a killer. That you've got away with it before, often enough that you've become brazen. That you plan to shoot us so that our bodies fall into the depths of lake, and you expect that to be the end of it."

Turner frowned. "So why you grinnin'?"

John looked over to see the smug expression tugging at Sherlock's features.

"Alicia," he said.

And then John saw fear flicker in Turner's eyes. "What about her?"

"Before we left this morning, I wrote a letter to her detailing your crime; if we do not return unharmed, it will find its way into her hands."

Sherlock had done no such thing, but John did not react.

Turner scoffed. "A letter?"

"It will plant doubt in her mind. Her love for you will waver. She's a clever girl; you'll give yourself away, in a hundred little ways-"

John's eyes slowly scanned the scene for any advantage to be had. If Sherlock was resorting to bluffing, there wasn't much time left.

"She's a good person-what d'you think it'll do to her? Her faith in you shaken, her confidence in herself shattered. She'll become a broken, cynical woman, just like her mother; everything good in her will wither until she devolves into a reflection of her black-hearted father."

_God, it's worse than I thought. He's laying it on thick._ If John could tackle Susana, knock her into Willows, Sherlock might be able to handle Turner on his own. It really, really wasn't a good plan.

"She won't believe you," Turner argued, shaking his head.

"She doesn't have to believe me; she just has to doubt you."

"No." Turner pulled his pistol from its holster and leveled it at Sherlock. "You're bluffin'."

_God damn it. _

"I assure you that I am not."

"I'll kill ya. I oughtta kill ya for bringin' her into this at all," Turner said, taking another step towards Sherlock. John moved forward immediately, placing himself between the two men, arms out a bit from his side to shield Sherlock as best he could, and Susana and Lanky shifted their aim to John as Turner growled.

"I'll kill ya both just for threatenin' her!" he bellowed, so enraged he failed to notice the small movement off to his right.

John shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Says who? _You_?"

John lifted his chin to his left. "Says him."

Malcolm Reynolds stood calmly to the south, his gun trained on Turner in a smooth and sure extension of the long line of his arm.

The moment the three of them looked away, John's eyes flicked behind them to see Jayne and Zoe creeping up from the treeline. Susana planted her back foot as if to fire at Mal, and in an instant John rushed her, bending her wrist swiftly and disarming her. Dr. Willows raised his open palms in surrender as Jayne approached him, and Zoe focused on Turner. Having taken Susana completely by surprise, John was able to plant a kick at the back of her knee, forcing her to kneel.

He tutted at her as he retrieved his own gun from her waistband. "'Fraid not, Susana."

The woman scowled, but remained on the ground. Without taking his eyes off their captives, John handed Susana's gun to Sherlock.

Turner's eyes darted among the many guns aimed in his direction.

"Give it up, Turner," Sherlock advised.

"Why? So you can shoot me?"

"Oh, I won't shoot you. Not really my strong suit," Sherlock admitted.

"No." John allowed himself a thin smile. "It's mine."

Mal grinned at bit at that. "Or we could just skip the shootin' part," he suggested. His eyes moved to Jayne. "Tie those two up while Mr. Turner here decides his fate."

Jayne came forward, holstering his gun and yanking Willows and Susana away.

Turner glared at Mal, but the captain just smiled. "Alicia's fine, by the way."

The older man's eyes widened.

"She's back on the ship by now, I expect. Wouldn't you say so, Zoe?"

"Yes, sir." Zoe kept her eyes, and her shotgun, riveted to Turner.

"Very secure," Mal said, nodding. "She was in a right state when we couldn't find you at the house. Told her I'd make sure you didn't come to any harm."

Turner's arm wavered.

"After all," Mal continued, "you're a living legend."

Narrowing his eyes, Turner assessed Mal's features. The readiness seeped out of him and he lowered his weapon. "_Xing jiao."_

Zoe reached over and plucked the gun from his hand easily. She stepped back, now that Turner was unarmed and amply covered, and joined Jayne.

John maintained his stance, but Sherlock stepped towards Mal. "What do you mean?"

"You remember you said something about 'a rat'," Mal said.

"Yes, McCarthy's last words."

"And then this morning Zoe was talking about a 'black hat' and 'Jack Turner's place', and it all came together," Mal explained. "I imagine that's a common enough feeling for you, but I'll tell ya, it made fear claw up my back."

Mal gestured at Turner. "You've caught yourself a wanted man, Sherlock. This is Black Jack of Ballarat."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled in recognition. "Of the Ballarat Gang," he breathed.

John looked to Sherlock, reading the irritation on his face that he hadn't put the pieces together himself, and then glanced at Mal.

"Train robber," Mal filled in. "Held up the convoys from the gold mines in Victoria. Murdered whoever stood in his way-train engineers, sheriffs, wagon drivers."

Sherlock squinted. "And McCarthy knew."

Turner's features sharpened into an angry grimace. "Said I'd killed a cousin o' his. Said I owed him, or he'd tell everyone who I was, get Alicia taken away from me."

"So he asked for the farm. For money to bail out his feckless son," Sherlock surmised. "But this time he asked for something you were unwilling to give - Alicia."

Turner nodded.

John's brows drew together. "He asked for your daughter?"

"He had a grand plan. James and Alicia should get _married_." He shook his head. "_My_ Alicia. Chained to that piece of _niu shi_."

A scowl crossed the man's face, and he looked as though he were about to spit on the ground. "So. He had to go."

"Wow. That's a really great story," Mal said, straight-faced. "It's got layers. Don't usually find that 'mongst the tales of lyin', thievin' murderers."

"Enough yappin'," Jayne said, frowning from where he and Zoe had Susana and Willows tethered to the pommel of the chestnut's saddle. "Let's just finish this and get off this damn rock."

"I agree," Turner said, and he bolted towards the edge of the cliff. John barely dodged the man, who flew past him and jumped off the escarpment.

Mal and John scrambled to look over the edge.

"_Ta ma de hun dan_," Mal breathed as Turner dove into the water below.

John looked back to see Sherlock swiftly removing his coat, and his heart stuttered in fear.

"Sherlock." A warning.

"No time to argue, John," Sherlock replied, and holstering the gun, he started to run towards the cliff.

"_Sherlock_!"

John reached out, his fingertips sliding along the silky fabric of a sleeve as Sherlock passed him and jumped off the edge.

_x-x-x_

_I know, two cliffhangers in a row... I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me... _

_Questionable Chinese: _

_xing jiao = fuck_  
_niu shi = cow dung_  
_ta ma de hun dan = mother humping son of a bitch_


	12. Chapter 12

_This chapter was co-written by i_ship_an_armada. Seriously. I got stuck a million times, and each time she descended like an angel from ficcly heaven and made it all better._

x-x-x

John took off down the path, only vaguely aware that Mal was right behind him.

His body ran on autopilot, racing down the hill as his thoughts came in a frantic scramble.

_Please, God. Please_.

He heard splashing, and sputtering, and two voices, and he exhaled sharply at the sounds of Sherlock having survived the fall.

He rounded the corner at the base of the cliff, skidding in the wet earth at the shore, and his eyes sought Sherlock.

Sherlock and Turner were grappling about ten yards in from the edge of the lake.

Mal came to a stop beside him. "No clear shot. Plan?"

John frowned. "Keep your gun on Turner; shoot when you can."

Holding his gun up out of the water, John strode into the murky lake.

"What are you gonna do?" Mal asked.

"Get that idiot out of the way," John replied.

Mal nodded. "Good plan." He kept his gun aimed at Turner, but the two men were a blur of unpredictable motion.

John approached, his gun raised to eye level as the water surrounded him up to his chest.

"Let him go, Turner," John shouted. "Or I will fucking end you."

Turner ignored him and continued his attempt to pull Sherlock under the water, but the lake's slippery bottom made it nearly impossible to hold Sherlock in any one position for more than a moment. Both men grabbed at each other's shirts, jockeying for control.

If Turner had been hoping to use Sherlock as leverage somehow, he was failing and seemed now to be acting out of desperation. John closed in, trying unsuccessfully to better his angle. He surged forward and stopped within inches of the two men, who still thrashed like fish caught on a line. Sherlock glanced at John and the gun and shifted suddenly, trying to wrench free from Turner's grasp, but the older man hung on like grim death. John planted his feet in the shifting silt beneath him and, with his free hand, grabbed at Sherlock's collar, yanking him to the side and down. It was just enough to free him from Turner's grip. Turner tried to follow, hands reaching out, but in one tight movement, John took a backhand swing with the butt of the gun against Turner's temple, and the man stumbled away from them in the water.

Mal's shot hit Turner in the shoulder, spinning him round, and Turner sank under the surface like a stone.

Sherlock gulped in deep breaths beside him, his hand coming to rest along John's shoulder, and John flinched, shrugging him off.

"John, you have impeccable timing," Sherlock said around a smile.

John turned away, unable to face him, because nothing good was going to come out of his mouth right now.

"My hero," Sherlock continued, and John felt him coming closer, doubtless about to make some ridiculous, insincere gesture, and John was trying very hard to count to ten. The man could discern the smallest of lies, yet he could not read the anger mounting in John's breathing, the line of his shoulders. John fought to steady his heartbeat, could hear Sherlock's breath evening out in the stillness between them. Despite John's efforts, the adrenaline still coursed through his body, awareness prickling over his skin.

He heard the subtle sound of movement in the water a few feet behind them. John whipped around, gun raised, to find Turner rising out of the water with a gasping breath, Susana's gun dripping but steady in his hand.

John fired, one shot landing in the center of Turner's forehead. Turner's body fell back, and sank for good.

"Nice shot," Sherlock commented.

John's eyes twitched.

_Fuck this. _

John turned and swung.

His fist connected with Sherlock's jaw in a sickening thud, and Sherlock slipped, stumbling back in the water. John slogged away, toward the shore, his face contorting into a steely grimace.

"Goddamned, bloody _idiot_," John muttered, reaching the shore, barely registering that Mal was giving him a wide berth. "A fucking _jump _off a fucking _cliff-_"

He heard Sherlock splashing through the shallow water at the edge, coming up behind him.

"John-"

"No."

"John!"

"_No_!" John repeated, still not looking back.

Sherlock caught up, laid a hand on John's shoulder. John spun, shaking off the hand and glaring.

"Get the fuck away from me."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, a clear look of confusion on his pale face, now marred with a splotch of red from John's fist.

"Because I fucking asked you to," John spat, and he turned, stalking away again in the general direction of the house.

Sherlock ran to catch him, his long strides quickly bringing him alongside John. "Why? We solved it? It's over!" The lack of comprehension in his tone, his incredulity, halted John's steps.

John stopped and holstered the gun. Rubbed at his brow.

"Oh my God," he sighed, eyes down. "You have no bloody idea, do you?"

Sherlock moved around in front of him, and John finally looked up.

"John, I know you just killed a man, and I know that's never your first choice in how to deal with the criminals we encounter, but would you have preferred to-"

"No," John interrupted. "That's not . . ." He brought his hand up in frustration. "Not even _remotely _. . ."

Sherlock's cry of disdainful impatience was no surprise. "Well, what _is _it, then?"

John took a step into Sherlock's space.

"All right. Fine. Let me make this perfectly clear for you," John began, raising a hand and pinching his thumb and forefinger together. "You jumped off a fucking cliff -"

He pointed to the escarpment. "Right in front of me -"

He waved his hand at where Susana's blow had split the skin at Sherlock's temple. "Still bleeding from your fucking head!"

"I'm fine," Sherlock attempted.

John surged forward, his face inches from Sherlock's. "I had no idea if you'd break your neck hitting the bottom of that lake-and _neither did you!_"

Sherlock paused only a moment, a fleeting expression of regret flickering over his features, but he stood his ground. "John, think it through; this is _his _land-he would have known if he could survive that fall. He wanted to get away, not commit suicide. It was only logical that he was taking his last chance at escape, so I took the risk-"

John's body shuddered in exasperation. His voice broke as he near shrieked at the maddeningly calm detective in front of him. "With your LIFE! You risked your fucking _life_, over that piece of human detritus. He wasn't going to get away; there were _five _of us, we had a fucking _horse_, and you decided the best option was to endanger yourself?"

Sherlock frowned and moved to reach out to him. "John-"

John narrowed his eyes and his voice evened out, thick and dark now. "No. Save it. That wasn't you on the side of angels, or being a martyr." His finger came up to point at Sherlock's chest, emphasizing each sentence with a firm poke against his sopping clothes. "That was grandstanding. That was you being a selfish prick. That was you being heartless." With his last word he pressed hard enough that Sherlock leaned back.

John dropped his hand. "Don't fucking follow me," he growled. His eyes dropped down and he turned, pounding out his steps along the path, away, away, away.

Sherlock stood in a daze, eyes following John's figure as it disappeared down the path. His jaw throbbed dully as he replayed the scene in his mind, attempting to account for the ferocity of John's reaction. He would do anything for the work, to solve a case, John knew that, but as he considered how it may have appeared to the others, what John would have thought, seeing him jump . . .

He closed his eyes.

_Damn it. _

He pinched the bridge of his nose and vaguely heard splashing and grunting from behind as Mal struggled to drag Turner's corpse from the water and deposit it along the muddy shore, but nothing could prevent him from realizing what he had done.

_Stupid_.

Sherlock felt Zoe come up alongside him, and he dropped his hand from his face. He looked up to see her standing before him with her arms crossed, her brown eyes leveled at him in judgment.

"You make those kind of decisions often, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, chin high.

"What kind are those?"

"Stupid ones."

Having reached the same conclusion himself, he couldn't bring himself to deny it. "Often enough," he answered.

"If Wash had done such a fool thing as jump off that cliff, I'd have killed him myself soon as I had the chance," she said. She looked pointedly at the rosy mark blooming on his skin. "Reckon you got off easy."

She accepted his silence for the concession it was and continued. "You go help Jayne and the captain with the prisoners. I'll catch up to John and make sure he doesn't shoot you when you apologize to him."

Sherlock knit his brows. _How does one apologize for such a thing?_

Zoe took in his features and uncrossed her arms. Her voice softened. "Tell him you're sorry you made him go through that. Tell him you won't be so thoughtless from here on."

He dipped his chin and gave her a thin smirk.

"That you'll _aim _not to, then," she revised, one corner of her full lips turning up. "That you'll think of him least as much as you think of yourself. You follow?" She narrowed her eyes at him.

That, he could do.

She seemed to sense his answer, for she nodded once at him with finality and turned, walking over to the tall bay. He watched her untie him from the hitching post and check his tack, a soldier getting ready to go to work cleaning up someone else's mess.

Sherlock huffed out a breath. She was clearly cut from the same cloth as a certain army doctor he knew.

x-x-x

Hours later, having explained every tedious detail the imbecilic sheriff, Sherlock was finally making his way back to Serenity with the others. The ride back had been blessedly silent. When Mal and Jayne had need to communicate, they did so in a complicated run of shrugs and facial expressions that would have normally interested Sherlock, but his thoughts were solely on John.

John.

Who was nearly as angry as he had been after Sherlock's return.

Whose anger was born of hurt.

Hurt that Sherlock had caused.

He regretted causing John pain-but to propose it would never happen again?

_Unrealistic. Unlikely. Not possible to predict all future actions that could lead to John being hurt._

But at the pang of that thought, he wondered._ Is this love? This feeling of wanting to prevent all harm, physical, emotional, to the other person? This feeling that I'd rather take his pain on myself than have him endure it?_

And his soul answered. _Yes_.

Could he give John that?

The answer was just as definite.

_No_.

Because he couldn't prevent every possible mistake, every possible danger. He couldn't make himself become the kind of person who fussed over someone, who always took the other person's needs and wants into account, who never made the other person worry, never said a harsh word.

He had been playing at being a "giver." He had heeded the owl and the courtesan. And though he could hardly argue against the results - the dizzying, incredible results - it simply was not sustainable.

Sherlock Holmes was not a giver any more than John Watson was a taker.

The conversation floated back to him.

_Give him what he likes._

_He likes _me_._

x-x-x

Gunshots rang out at regular intervals as they approached the ship, and no one was surprised to see John shooting at distant targets in the woods to the north of the Firefly. Zoe stood at his side, tall and calm, silently taking the empty clip John handed to her and passing over a full one.

Sherlock dismounted and handed the reins to Jayne, not reacting in the least to Jayne's grunt of annoyance. He strode over towards John and Zoe confidently enough, but found himself pausing a few yards from them.

John was aware of Sherlock behind him, of course; he stepped back, releasing his stance, and lowered the gun, setting the safety.

Without glancing at Sherlock, John turned and handed the weapon carefully to Zoe.

"Hang on to that for me?" His voice was calm. Professional.

She answered in kind. "Yes, sir."

She took the gun and turned to leave, glancing up at Sherlock as she passed.

She gave him a tight smile, surely meant to be reassuring. Sherlock inclined his head in the merest nod, and she dropped her gaze, walking back towards the ship.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock said immediately. John laughed mirthlessly.

"You think I jumped off that cliff despite knowing it might hurt you, but that's not the case."

"No?" John asked, sarcastic disbelief clear on his features.

"No. It was simply the quickest way to achieve the goal."

John shook his head. "You said, 'no time to argue'."

"There wasn't."

John narrowed his eyes. "Indicates that you knew I'd object, and you did it anyway."

Sherlock shifted his weight and looked away.

"And then, you _still _needed help," John continued, stepping closer. "You lost the gun, Turner was trying to drown you-"

"Yes, all right. As usual, John, you're missing the point; I was not deliberately trying to hurt you." Sherlock frowned. He hadn't meant to bicker, but it seemed to come as natural as breathing with them. He tried again. "Would it help if I apologize?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not sorry for pursuing Turner."

John waited. Patient John, who, despite all his anger, was listening.

Sherlock moved his hand to run the backs of his fingers along John's inner wrist, an echo of what John had done to him only yesterday morning, under the table in the dining area. "I _do _apologize for frightening you."

John looked up at him, body still, his face calm, but his eyes giving everything away. No-giving everything _to him_.

John swallowed, and the stillness wavered. His voice came low and weak. "You gave me a bloody heart attack."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again and his fingers intertwined with John's. John gripped his hand tightly in return. Sherlock watched him blink and inhale roughly through his nose, John's lips pressing together into a thin line.

"And I'm not unaware of how this action mirrored what I did . . . before. You know I'm sorry for hurting you, I've said it every way I know how. But I cannot regret keeping you safe, keeping you alive-I will never be sorry for that."

John frowned and shook his head, clearly trying to fend off tears, and his gaze slid away to the distant trees.

Sherlock knew John would forgive him this time, possibly that John would always forgive him anything, but that wasn't what Sherlock actually wanted.

He wanted John to understand. He wanted John to see.

"I would have done anything, will do anything to keep you safe. And you would do the same for me."

John nodded, looking down to the ground between them, and cleared his throat. "Okay, yes. That bit's true."

"But. It will happen again. You will get hurt. I will . . . " Sherlock's voice broke as he admitted, "_I_ will hurt you."

John looked up, shaking his head. "No. Sherlock. It's not-"

He sighed and licked his lips, a sign Sherlock very well knew that John was about to explain what he considered important facts of life to him.

"I don't want you to be anything other than what you are. Never have. I have accepted you-" John took in a deep breath, "-have _loved _you, since the day we met."

Sherlock felt weak at the sudden flood of emotion John's words set off in him, and he blinked at the rush of heat in his eyes.

"I don't want a tame, watered-down version of you," John continued, and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand.

"But you are . . . my heart. And when you deliberately put yourself in danger, I'm going to get angry. Every single time."

Sherlock's head had inclined as John spoke, and his eyes shone. He hadn't intended to whisper, but his words came soft. "Because you love me."

John closed the distance, resting their foreheads together.

"Because I love you."

John shifted, reaching up, and Sherlock met him eagerly with warm, slow kisses, putting his apology, his love into his touch, his lips meeting John's tenderly.

John slipped his head to Sherlock's shoulder and sighed heavily. "Let's go home."

Sherlock pressed his face against John's and held him close, taking in the feel of the smooth skin at John's temple, the scent of his hair.

_Home_.

_x-x-x_

_Notes: Thanks, again, to my speedy and thorough betas, Armada, Jude, Kate, and Snog. We're almost to the end, dear readers, and I'm so grateful to everyone who has gone on this journey with me. *smooches*_


	13. Chapter 13

The deep hum of the engine muffled their sounds as they moved together, sliding along each other's bodies as Serenity made her way back through the black.

"When we get home," John began.

"Yes."

"I want to do this." He shifted to hold them together in his hand as his hips worked.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered through gritted teeth, his body arching upwards.

"In every single room," John clarified, emphasizing his point by quickening his pace.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, his fingers roving over the soft skin at John's hips.

Though Sherlock had already said the words, each touch felt like a healing apology, a promise, and John buried his face along Sherlock's neck. Sherlock tilted his head, offering himself, and John smiled against him, dropping warm, wet kisses along his jaw.

Sherlock shivered beneath him. "Yes."

The ship held them safely tucked in her belly as they moved together, uttering broken phrases and halting breaths. She was steady afterwards as Sherlock wriggled into John's arms, and with every passing mile, John thought _soon. _

_Home._

x-x-x

Serenity's ramp creaked and complained as it lowered, the afternoon sun spilling into the cargo bay.

John looked over to Sherlock, who stood in silhouette at the top edge of the ramp, his figure outlined in sunlight. Bags packed. Most goodbyes said.

John glanced to his left at the sound of feet on the stairs to see Mal coming down. The captain came up to his side.

"Has it really only been three days since we were here?" Mal asked in disbelief.

John chuckled in response.

Mal smiled, wistful. "Good to be home?"

John's eyes darted to Sherlock. "Very good." He considered a moment. "And yet you've been home this whole time."

Mal shrugged. "It's not for everybody."

John looked over to the man he had fought next to, the man who had challenged him and frustrated him. He saw the lines the war had etched around his eyes, the ten years of disillusionment he wore on his shoulders. The walls of stone and blood that Mal had built around himself were strong enough to keep everyone out.

Even those he might want to let in.

John glanced around the interior of the ship, spying Inara standing high up on the catwalk, her eyes on Mal below. He looked back to Mal, his features marred by a squint and a frown, and John sensed he was already itching to get back in the air, into his sky.

"It suits you," John said. His smile was a sad one, but Mal's eyes were on the horizon.

Sherlock turned. "Ready?"

John looked over to where Zoe leaned against the rail at the base of the staircase. "Almost."

Zoe walked over calmly, in no hurry, her face neutral though her eyes shone as she reached him. Sherlock came closer as well, only a step behind John.

"It's been-" Her eyes flicked to Sherlock momentarily. "Interesting."

"That it has," John agreed, grinning.

"Take care of yourself,_ wan cha_," she said, offering her hand.

John clasped her forearm. "Upgraded from wacky, have I?"

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

Her eyes slid to Sherlock. "You take care of this man, you _jing lu_, or we'll have words, you and me."

Sherlock lifted his chin slightly, but at the quiet reproach in her gaze he cocked his head in deference.

Satisfied, Zoe turned back to John. "_Anquan chuxing,_" she said.

"Same to you," John answered. He gripped her arm briefly and felt her answering squeeze on his. They released each other, and she went back the way she had come, and John watched her climb up the stairs. Zoe passed Inara along the catwalk, and John saw Inara dip her chin in acknowledgement - but not at him. He followed her gaze to see Sherlock nod up at her in return.

Mal cleared his throat. "Well. All set to go, then," he said.

John nodded. "Yes."

"Next time we're out this way, we'll send you a wave," Mal offered.

John wondered if he would, but answered politely all the same. "Oh, please."

"Never know when we might need quick transport off world, and you're reasonably useful in a fight," Sherlock allowed.

One corner of Mal's lips pulled up. "Naw, I meant for playin' cards," Mal answered innocently, and he looked to John. "I'd get a hell of a lot more off ya from that than from any passenger fare."

At that, Sherlock grinned and huffed out a laugh. "Captain," he said, putting out a hand. Mal shook hands with him briskly, and then Sherlock turned on his heel, stepping off towards the ramp.

The silence between the two captains returned, and though it wasn't comfortable, it was familiar in its own way. After a few moments, John bent and lifted the duffle at his feet.

"Take care of yourself, Mal," John said.

Mal shrugged a shoulder. "Always do."

John smiled thinly, and joined Sherlock at the top of the ramp. Sherlock reached down to sling the violin case over his shoulder, and glanced up at the rafters one last time. John watched as one end of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. John followed Sherlock's gaze to see River on her perch, watching and waiting. He smiled as well, and then Sherlock was turning, and John moved into place, walking beside him out of the ship and into the city.

x-x-x

The owl blinked at the raven, saw his eyes alight with something other than their usual mischief, and the hawk's gaze was a thing of contentment. The sky turned shades of lavender and rose, and she watched the members of her adoptive flock flit and perch against the backdrop of the oncoming evening. The hawk and the raven took their leave, wing-tip feathers touching as they broke into the light.

x-x-x

As they made their way closer and closer to home, John felt a strange anxiety coiling in his belly, such that as they came through the front door, climbed the steps to the flat, his jaw was tight and his leg pained him in a way it hadn't for months.

He knew why. Knowing the cause didn't alleviate it in the least.

Sherlock strode through the door, dumping his belongings in a heap near the coat rack.

John stood still at the threshold, and Sherlock turned to observe him.

John looked up, feeling Sherlock's eyes flit over him like a physical touch upon his body. After a moment, Sherlock met his eyes, and John thought he saw understanding in Sherlock's expression.

Sherlock stepped over to him. He reached up to ease the luggage off John's shoulders, letting the bags fall where they may, and John felt the tightness begin to loosen. Sherlock's hand came to cradle John's jaw, smooth palm and cool fingers flush against his stubbly cheek. John's eyes stayed riveted to Sherlock's, finding the reassurance there that he needed, and he could feel the anxiety slough away.

Sherlock nodded once. He blinked, and dropped his hand.

"Right. So, tea first," he began, swirling off and walking through the kitchen towards the back of the flat. "And then I believe you promised sex in every room."

John stood alone in the sitting room. The laughter rose in his chest, and he let it bubble out of him, shaking his head.

x-x-x

"Move over," Sherlock demanded, hands full with a plate of toast and a mug of tea.

John frowned but nudged over a bit on the bed, balancing the laptop console on his thighs. Sherlock climbed back under the covers, managing to spill neither tea nor toast, and lined himself up alongside John, shoulder to shoulder.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving, but-" Sherlock brought the toast up to John's mouth, stopping only an inch from his lips.

"Oh!" John said, startled, and Sherlock waved the warm bread until John had to snap at it like a shark to catch a bite.

Sherlock smiled and took a bite of it himself.

"Ta," John said with his mouth full. "But I wanted to finish this first." He jutted his chin to the small console screen.

Sherlock peered over at what John had written.

_The Boscombe Valley Bushwhack_

John heard the expected disdainful huff that Sherlock always gave when he read John's titles.

_In an attempt to escape one of Sherlock's legendary sulking fits, I reviewed a wave from Alicia Turner, an earnest young woman_

"You forgot 'beautiful'," Sherlock mumbled around a bit of toast.

_in desperate need of our assistance to clear the name of her childhood friend. Little did I know in accepting her case what adventures awaited us. In a happy twist of fate, the crew of our transport ship included two army friends of mine whom I had not seen in over ten years' time. The conditions for a uniquely eye-opening experience were met. I can only be grateful to all involved-yes, even the murderer-for helping me understand what in life truly matters._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're such a romantic."

"So are you," John countered, looking pointedly at their shared toast in Sherlock's hand, the way Sherlock had fitted his body along John's.

"No, I'm not."

John continued typing, the glow of the screen illuminating his smile. "Yes, you are."

x-x-x

_Notes: _

_wan cha = "wan" means complete, whole, fully developed; "cha" is tea._  
_jing lu = "brilliant donkey" or possibly "smart ass"_  
_Anquan chuxing = safe travels _

_A thousand thank yous to my amazing betas, i_ship_an_armada, wiggleofjudas, snogandagrope, and KitKate. Thanks yet again to captfangirl for all her consultation and enthusiasm. Buckets of love to snog for bidding on me and supporting me and trusting me through this. And thank you to each of you for reading. Every hit, every kudo, every comment, makes me happier than you can know. Y'all are shiny and I'm so grateful to you for going on this journey with me._


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